

Book ,*S ~ t X*5l ?g- 

3 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 






^he Rejected Bride 


j ‘Only a Girl’s Heart” — Second Series. 

ly Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, 


AUTHOR OF “THE HIDDEN HAND,” ETC. 

LLUSTRATED BY HUGH M. EATON. 


NEW YOKK: 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 


TUB 

ClIOiCB 

mim 
No. 100 


Publishers. 


A New Novel by Mrs. Southworth. 


A SKELETON IN THE CLOSET. . 

BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

Author of The Hidden Handf Gloria f Nearest and 

Dearest f *‘*-The Unloved Wifef ‘■‘■Unktiownf For 
Woman's Lovef “ The Lost Lady of 
Lonef etc.y etc., etc. 

ILLUSTRATED BT HARRY C. EDWARDS. 

12mo. 350 Pag-es. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Px*ice, $1.00,. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This is a thoroughly interesting book. It is a story of youth 
and beauty in distress, in trial and vicissitude by land and by sea. 
It shows the inherent courage, virtue and truth of womanhood, 
and how it triumphs even in this wicked world. Mrs. Southworth 
is a charming story-teller. She has written fifty books and every 
one of them is full of delightful people whom it is a pleasure to 
read about. She has an inexhaustible fund of humor, and she 
understands the colored people as only one born in the South and 
living with them all her days can understand and love them. Her 
books are just as popular now as they were twenty-five years ago, 
only there are so many competing novelties and literary sensa- 
tions, that the very best books must be forced on public attention 
by constant advertising of their merits, the same as the latest 
issues of the press. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

^OR. -William and Spruce Streets. New York. 


‘‘The Wholesome Educator of Millions.” 



Semi-Centennial Volume 



For Fifty Years the Leading IHnstrated National Family 
Weekly Paper of America. 

CONTRIBUTORS OF THE “LEDGER:”* 


The following gives only a partial list of the distinguished writ- 
ers who wd^ contribute to the Ledger during 1894 : 


Edward • "rett Hale, 

Mrs. Balli-'gton Booth, 
George Kennan, 

Mary Lowe Dickinson, 
Hjalmar H. Boyeson, 

Helen Campbell, • ^ 

John Habberton, 

Washington Gladden, D. D., 
Mrs. M. A. Kidder, 

Eben E. Rexford, 

Elizabeth Olmis, 

E. A. Robinson, 


Hon. James Bryce, 

Olive Thorne Miller, 

Mary Kyle Dallas, 

Mrs. N. S. Stowell, 
Theodore Roosevelt, 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, 
S. P. Cadman, 

Hon. Thomas Dunn English, 
E. Werner, 

Helen V. Greyson, 

Dr. Charles C. Abbott, 

Prof. Felix L. Oswald. 


A Four-Dollar Paper for Only TWO Dollars. 


Our Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and Fourth-of-July 
Numbers, with beautifully illuminated covers, will be sent with- 
out extra charge to all our subscribers. 

SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $2 A YEAR. 

Free Specimen Copies on Applicoiion. 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, Publishers, 

Cor. William and Spruce Sts., New York. 


One of Mrs. Southworth^s Best. 


ONLY A GIRL’S HEART 


BY 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH, 

Author of Unknown y' The Unloved Wifef Nearest and 
Dearest," Gloria f David Lindsay," The Lost 
Lady of Lone," The Hidden Hand," 

‘‘‘Em,*" “‘Efn's* Husband," “For 
Woman* s Love," etc. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HUGH M. EATON. 


12x110. 453 Pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


“ Only a Girl’s Heart ” is a most delightful story, containing 
charming pictures of society in the South and womanly charac- 
ters of great beauty. There is a charm about all of Mrs. South- 
worth’s novels, quiet and unpretentious and long-drawn out, as 
many of them are, which holds the reader’s attention and makes 
life a holiday. They are pleasant books for an idle day 
at home or a traveller’s holiday abroad. The illustrations by 
Mr. H. M. Eaton are excellent, and add to the beauty and inter- 
est of the book. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


V# 








»• • 

• ^ 


> 

. t 





1 . 


\ 



•' ¥ T 





r 

Vf .--' 


j 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 










t 


• ^ 



> > 




> 





t 








i' 





f* 


» 


^ ' 


> 




> 


■> 

.4 

r » 




« 




I 


•/ 


^ p 

• •* * ■ ' ' 


f ^ 


J: 



I 


Works by 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 

UNKNOWN. 121110., 692 pages. 
Illustrated. Handsomely bound 
in cloth, price, $1.00. Paper 
cover, 60 cents. 

THE HIDDEN HAND. 12mo., 
600 pages. Illustrated. Hand* 
somely bound In cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 

NEAREST AND DEAREST. 12- 
mo., 572 pages. Illustrated. Hand* 

somely bound in cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 

A LEAP IN THE DARK. 12mo., 
556 pages. Illustrated. Hand* 
somely bound in cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

THE LOST LADY OF LONE. 12- 
mo., 561 pages. Illustrated. Hand* 
somely bound In cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 

FOR WOMAN’S LOVE. 12mo., 
486 pages. Illustrated. Hand* 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

THE UNLOVED WIPE. 12mo, 
374 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

LILITH. 12mo., 399 pages. Ulus* 
trated. Handsomely bound in 
cloth, price, $1.00. Paper cover, 
50 cents. 

GLORIA. 12mo. Illustrated. Hand* 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

DAVID LINDSAY: A Sequel to 
“GLORIA.” 12mo. Ulus. Hand* 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE 


^^ONLY A GIRLS HEART'^ 
Second Series. 





MRS. eTd! e. n.^ southworth; 


‘Author of Unknown The Unloved Wifef Nearest and 
Dearestf “ Gloriaf David Lindsay f The Lost 

Lady of Lonef ‘‘ The Hidden Handf 
Hints' Husband f For 
Woman’s Lovef etc. 



WITH ILLU8TBATI0N8 BY HUGH M. EATON. 


NEW YORK: 

ROBERT BONNER'S SON 


PUBLISHERS. 



THE CHOICE SERIES : ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 100, 
MNUARY 1, 1894. ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MAIL MATTER. 







COPYBIGHT, 1874 and 1893, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 

(All rights reserved.) 



> o 

> :> c 


A 




' 





THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER I. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Married ! 


It is not so ; thou hast misspoke, misheard ; 

It cannot be ; thou dost but say ’t is so ; 

I trust I may not trust thee ; for thy word 
Is but the vain breath of a common man ; 

I have his own oath to the contrary. — Shakespeare. 



N that fatal wedding-morning, Geraldine Fitz- 


gerald paced np and down the floor of her cham- 


her at Greenwood, with the fierce restlessness of 
a caged tigress. * 

On the bed lay spread ont the handsome suit of silver- 
gray Irish poplin, trimmed with velvet of the same hue, 
in which she was to be married, and in which she was to 
commence her wedding tour. 

Around the room stood several large trunks contain- 


[ 7 ] 


8 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


ing her costly wardrobe, all locked and strapped for 
transportation. 

Standing and waiting respectfully within the shade of 
the window curtains was Desirde, the French dressing- 
maid of the young lady. 

Presently, the heiress paused in her impatient walk, 
and demanded : 

“ What is the hour ?” 

“The clock has just struck ten, mademoiselle^' an- 
swered the maid. 

“ It is time my messenger had returned from the Sum- 
mit. Go down-stairs and inquire if he has arrived.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle." 

When the girl had left the room, Geraldine resumed 
her restless pace up and down the floor until she was 
interrupted by the maid’s return. 

“ Well ?” she exclaimed, pausing in her walk. 

“ Goliah has not yet arrived, mademoiselle" respect- 
fully answered the girl. 

“ Who is down-stairs, do you know ?” 

“ mademoiselle., Monsieur le Cur^ is arrived.” 

“ The priest ?” 

“ Oui, mademoiselle !" 

“ Father Dubarry here already, and — my messenger 
not returned ! Oh ! What if he should not And Colonel 
Fitzgerald ! Or should And him obdurate to my appeal ?” 
muttered Geraldine to herself. “ But no, no ! Gerald 
never was so, never could be so ! He will gladly receive 
my message, eagerly hasten tb be reconciled with me ! 
— Desirde !” 

“ Mademoiselle f" 

“ Who is down-stairs besides Father Dubarry ?” 

“ Madame Matzemo is there.” 

“ Miss Maxima Rowley ?” 

Oui, mademoiselle ; aussi petite demoiselle Horaciel' 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


9 


“ Horatia ! Any one else ?” 

N on ^ mademoiselle y 

“ The people from the rectory have not come ?” 

''Non, mademoiselle. Will not mademoiselle now make 
her toilet ? It is past ten,” suggested the maid. 

“ No, there is time enough yet ; the hour for the cere- 
mony is fixed for one o’clock. If I must wait for the 
bridegroom, they shall wait for the bride,” she muttered 
to herself, as she resumed her restless walk up and down 
. the floor — but pacing now with slow and dragging steps. 

An hour passed slowly on. The clock hands pointed 
at half-past eleven. 

" Desiree !” 

“ Mademoiselle ?” 

" Go down once more, and inquire if Goliah has re- 
turned from the Summit.” 

The girl courtesied and left the room. 

Geraldine, wearied with her restless walk, threw her- 
self, exhausted, into an arm-chair, to await the result. 
A few moments passed, and Desiree re-entered the 
room. 

“ Has the man returned ?” eagerly demanded Miss 
Fitzgerald. 

"Non, mademoiselle I' 

Geraldine sank back in her chair and covered her face 
with her hands, for she felt herself paling and fainting 
under this heart-sickening suspense. 

In a few minutes, however, she rallied her energies, 
and forced herself to inquire : 

“ Is there any new arrival whatever t Any one else 
down-stairs, except the priest and the two lady visitors ?” 

“ Non, chere mademoiselle, but be tranquil ; the ex- 
pected guests may yet render themselves in good time,” 
said the maid, soothingly. 

" There are no more guests expected, except the three 


10 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


from the rectory. This ceremony, as you must be aware, 
Desiree, is out of respect to the memory of the late Mr. 
Fitzgerald, for whom we are still in our first mourning, 
to be celebrated only in the presence of our nearest 
family connections. There will really be not more than 
five or six witnesses to the marriage.” 

** Oui^ mademoiselle y 

Another hour crept slowly away. 

The untiring hands of the clock pointed to half-past 
twelve. 

Geraldine started up wildly from her chair, exclaim- 
ing : 

“ Desir6e, go directly down-stairs, and see if that man 
has returned. He ought to have got back hours ago ! 
And here ! If he has returned, bring him up to me im- 
mediately ! If he has not^ leave word with the servants 
down-stairs to send him up as soon as he arrives.” 

The French girl flew out of the room to carry her 
message. 

Oeraldine started up from her seat and went to one 
window after another, looking out upon every approach 
to the house. 

Then she recommenced her restless, impatient tra- 
versing of the room. 

“ Oh, Heaven ! Oh, Heaven !” she cried suddenly, 
and wildly throwing her hands together. “If, after 
all, Gerald should refuse to receive my letter — ^but 
no, no, he could not be so unforgiving ! He knows 
me too well. He knows that I love him, in spite 
of all ! He knows that it is from the very excess of my 
love for him that I cannot endure to see him interested 
in any other woman ; that it maddens me to see him ab- 
sorbed in any other woman’s conversation even for an 
hour. Gerald knows this, and he will forgive my wicked 
words, for the great love I bear him ! And he knows 


THE REjECTEt) BRIDE. 


li 


that I never try his love in the manner that he tries 
mine ! / never — never sit by the hour, talking poetry, 

music or metaphysics with any other man ! Never ! I 
never even care to look at any other man than Gerald. 
Why should he wish to talk by the hour with any other 
woman, when he sees that it drives me mad for him to 
do so, and all from my great love for him ? Oh, no, no, 
no ! Gerald will not be obdurate ! He will forgive me 
— he will be glad to forgive me. Oh, I know that even 
now he must be hurrying to meet me ! And yet, if it 
should not be so — oh, I cannot bear the thought ! If he 
should send back my letter unrea4 ! But I would not 
live under such an affliction — not while any means re- 
mains untried for a reconciliation. If he should send 
back my letter unread, I will order my carriage and 
drive to the Summit Manor House and go straight into 
his presence. He may resist my unread letter, by for- 
bearing to read it, but — ^he cannot resist me. And why 
should I not go to him, if he will not come to me ? He 
is my betrothed husband since our childhood. He is my 
very own, and I am his. I drove him away from me in 
my jealous fury. It is for me to bring him back, at any 
price, to my woman’s pride. Come, then, I will not de- 
spair, even though he should send my letter back un- 
read. I will go to him in person. My own ! My own ! 
My own ! I must not, cannot, will not let you go !” she 
muttered, in impassioned earnestness, as she once more 
threw herself into the arm-chair. 

The door opened, and Desirde re-entered the room. 

“ The messenger ! Has he returned ?” Geraldine 
breathlessly demanded. 

“Ah, non mademoiselle; he is a wretch, this messen- 
ger,” replied the French maid, with a sigh. 

Geraldine fell back, half fainting, in her chair. 

There came a rap at the door. 


12 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ That is he !” she eagerly exclaimed, 

Desirde opened the door. 

Miss Sue Greenleaf entered the room. 

“ Oh, Miss Sue !” impulsively exclaimed Geraldine, in 
a tone of disappointment and injury, 

“ My dear, not dressed yet ? It is nearly one o’clock ! 
Father Dubarry has been here ever since ten. Do hurry 
and get ready !” urged Miss Greenleaf. 

“ Are you really waiting for me ?” inquired Geraldine, 
but only by way of saying something to cover her con- 
fusion. 

“ Why, we are not exactly waiting for you. The party 
from the rectory have not come yet, nor have the most 
important persons of all — Colonel Fitzgerald and his 
groomsman — arrived ; but you should be ready to come 
down, my dear, the moment they do. Y ou are to leave 
here by three o’clock, if you wish to catch the five- 
o’clock coach at Wildeville. Come, let me help you to 
dress.” 

“ No, thanks, dear Miss Greenleaf. Pray go and en- 
tertain good Father Dubarry. Desiree can dress me in 
ten minutes,” answered Geraldine. 

“ Very well, my dear ; just as you please ; pray do not 
be long,” urged Miss Greenleaf, as with her fair face 
held up, and her stately form erect, she passed out of 
the room. 

“Thank Heaven, she knows nothing, guesses nothing 
of this last quarrel between Fitzgerald and myself. I 
wonder if Miss Doy or any one else suspects it ? I hope 
not !” sighed Geraldine. 

'■^Mademoiselle^ shall I now have the honor to dress 
you ?” inquired the French maid. 

“No — ^but — yes!” answered Geraldine. “I will be 
ready to go down, in case he should come, as of course 
he will come, in spite of appearances ; or, if by possi- 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


13 


bility he should not come, but should send my letter 
back, unread, the same dress will do for me to wear in 
driving over to the Summit Manor to see him ; for I am 
resolved to see him, to be reconciled to him at any cost 
to my pride,” she mentally added. 

“ Will mademoiselle please to occupy her dressing- 
chair ?” inquired Desiree, as she placed a low seat in 
front of the toilet-table. 

Geraldine silently arose and took the place. 

“ How will mademoiselle please to have her beautiful 
black hair dressed this morning ?” inquired the maid. 

In close bands and plaits, to accommodate my trav- 
elling-hat,” replied Geraldine, forcing herself by an ef- 
fort to take an interest in these details. 

The skillful fingers of the French maid soon arranged 
the magnificent black tresses of the beauty in those 
simple braids so becoming to her classic head and face. 
And next she clothed her in the simple but elegant 
silver-gray travelling-dress, and she was about to add 
the delicately embroidered linen cuffs and collar to the 
suit, when they were interrupted by another rap at the 
door. 

“ That is my messenger at last. Let him come in at • 
once !”cried Geraldine, as her face paled and flushed in 
rapid succession. 

Desiree went and opened the door. 

Hetty, Miss Greenleaf’s waiting-maid, stood without. 

“ What is this you want ?” tartly inquired Desiree. 

“ Please, Miss Daisy Ray, Uncle Goliah have come 
back, and wants to see Miss Fitzgerald, if she has done 
dressing and will let him come in,” said the little wait- 
ing-maid. 

“ Did I not send down orders that he should come up 
to me immediately upon his arrival ? Bring him up here 
directly !” exclaimed Geraldine. Then, suddenly plac- 


14 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


ing her hand over her heart, she gasped in a low 
voice : 

“ Stop — stop ! Is he — did he return alone 

“ Oh, yes, miss, sure ; and he have fotch a big letter 
for you,” replied the little girl. 

“ A letter ! Tell him to bring it up to me immedi- 
ately !” exclaimed Geraldine. 

The little girl withdrew, and the French maid closed 
the door. 

“ Desirde ! Quick ! Mix a little lavender and am- 
monia with water and bring it to me ! Quick !” cried 
Geraldine, growing very pale, and sinking back in her 
chair ; for the intense strain upon her nervous system 
in this crisis of suspense was more than she could bear. 

The nimble fingers of the French girl soon prepared 
the mixture, and brought it to her mistress. Geraldine 
drank it in haste, and had but just returned the glass, 
empty, to the maid, when another knock at the door an- 
nounced the arrival of the messenger. 

Desirde opened it, and Goliah walked into the room, 
bringing in his hand a large, white envelope. 

“ It is not my letter, thank Heaven ! Mine was a 
rose-colored one ! No, he has not returned my letter 
unread ! Oh, blessings on his great heart ! Let me see 
what he has written to me !” she murmured to herself, 
as she received the letter from the hand of the mes- 
senger. 

You may go, now, Goliah. Desirde, my good girl, 
leave me for a few moments. I will ring when I require 
you,” she said to her attendant. 

The man and woman immediately withdrew, leaving 
the young lady alone. 

I do not wish them to watch me while I read this 
dear letter. Ah, what a thick package it is ! What a 
long letter he must have written ! Blessings on his noble 


;rHE REJECTED BRIDE, 


15 


soul ! He is too great to be unforgiving ! What a long 
letter ! This is what kept my messenger waiting so 
many hours ! But I wonder why Gerald did not 
come at once, instead of writing ? Perhaps, after all, he 
has written this letter only to lecture me ! Never mind ! 
He has not sent mine back, unread ! That is a good sign ! 
And, now, even if he has put himself upon his dignity, 
and keeps me to my word — my cruel word of banish- 
ment — I will not be bound by that ! I will go to him ! 
I, who banished him, will go to bring him back !” 

These thoughts passed swiftly through her mind, 
even during the few seconds it took her to break the 
seal of the envelope and withdraw the letter, or rather 
the letters — for her own rose-colored missive fell over 
upon her lap. She changed color again and trembled, 
as she asked herself : 

“ Why does he send back my letter, after reading it ?” 

Breathlessly she unfolded his note to learn the reason. 
The second line of that stern missive told her ! 

I cannot comply with your request that I should come to 
you ; nor, wefe it in my power, do I think it were well or wise 
for me to do so.” 

Her eyes were blurred as she tried to read what fol- 
lowed, until she came to these fatal words : 

I have within this hour raised an impassable barrier between 
vou and myself. I have united myself in marriage to Gertrude Had- 
don, to whom, Heaven helping me, I mean to make a faithful 
husband.” 

Geraldine read no further ; but she passed her hand 
over and over her dazed eyes, as if to clear their vision, 
and then read and reread what seemed to her a sen- 
tence of death. 

Meanwhile she gradually grew deadly, ghastly pale ; 
every shade of living color ebbed away from brow and 
cheeks and lips, leaving her face like a mask of death. 


16 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Oh, cruel, cruel, cruel, cruel!” she muttered low. 

“ Cruel as death and the grave — and cruel to himself as 
to me !” 

Yet not all at once could she feel the full force of the 
blow that had desolated her life. Not all at once could 
her ardent love turn to the cold and bitter and deadly 
hatred it was destined to become. 

“ I knew — I knew,” she continued. “ I knew that if 
he suffered the devil to take possession of him that devil 
would drive him to such extremities as I could never 
reach. He has married in haste and in wrath to be re- 
venged upon me. But, oh, when he shall come to his 
right senses, how he will turn upon himself 1 How he 
will hate and scorn himself for what he has done I How 
he will loathe and abhor the girl who took advantage of 
his transient madness to accept his reckless offer and 
become his wife, binding himself in detested bonds for 
the whole of his life ! I would not for a kingdom be in 
Gertrude Haddon’s place when Gerald Fitzgerald comes 
to his senses. For it is I whom he loves, in spite of all ! 
/ from whom he has divided himself forever by his mar- 
riage with an unloved bride ! Gerald married to an- 
other ! My Gerald the husband of another woman 1 Oh, 
no, no, no ! It cannot, cannot be ! This surely is 
some nightmare dream. Let me awake myself !” she 
cried, starting up, and pinching her own arms sharply. 
“ Oh, Heaven, it is no dream ! Gerald is married ; my 
Gerald married, and not to me ! He had no right — ^he 
had no right — he had no right to inflict this woe on me 
and on himself. Stop ! It is not so — it cannot be so. 
How could it, when he loves me ? I must have read his 
letter wrong. Let me look at it again !” she cried 
wildly, incoherently, as she snatched up the letter, which 
had fallen from her hands to the ground and, with fixed 
and staring eyes, tried to read and understand it. But 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


17 


her sight was blurred, her mind was confused ; she 
could not see the letters ; nor, if she could have seen 
them, could she have comprehended their purport. 

She felt her reason reeling on its throne. 

“ I shall go mad or die !” she gasped, as she seized 
both letters, with their envelopes, and crushed them up 
in her hands ; “ I shall go mad or die ; but I must not 
leave these papers here, to be found and read and re- 
membered and quoted to my shame,” she muttered. 

And she took them to the empty fire-place, lighted a 
match, set them on fire, threw them down in the hearth 
and watched them until they were burned to ashes. 

“There!” she said, with dark triumph. “ I may die 
or go mad, but no human being shall ever know that, 
after I had driven Gerald Fitzgerald away, I humbled 
myself to him, only to be rejected and cast off I Yes, I 
may die or I may go mad ; but, so surely as I shall live 
and retain my senses, so surely shall I live and labor for 
one fell purpose — to humble Gerald Fitzgerald to the 
dust, as he has humbled me 1 Me !" she cried, with a 
flash of her black eyes and a fierce stamp of her foot. 

She stood gazing on the ground for a few moments, 
and then with a grim nod, she muttered : 

“ It is whispered — though these whisperings were 
quickly repressed — that on the night when old Mr. Fitz- 
gerald so suddenly died, mad Magdala had told him 
some terrible secret, which struck him dead as by a 
thunderbolt ! I will discover this secret at any cost 1 I 
will give it to the winds, at any risk I I will pull down 
Gerald Fitzgerald to disgrace and ruin, even though I 
should fall with him !” 

She suddenly threw her hands to her head, paled, 
flushed, reeled, recovered herself, and said : 

“ But, now — while I can — I must give — some explana- 
tion to Miss Greenleaf.” 


18 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


She staggered back to her chair and dropped into it, 
stretched her hand to the bell-rope and gave it a sudden 
pull. 

Desiree answered the summons by entering the room. 

Ma chere mademoiselle^ are you ill ?” cried the girl in 
terror, as she beheld the ghastly pallor of her mistress’s 
face. 

“Go — and tell — Miss Greenleaf — that I wish to see 
her — immediately,” panted Geraldine, with fast-failing 
breath. 

Desiree flew out of the room and down the stairs in 
search of Miss Sue Greenleaf, whom she found in the 
dining-room, putting a few elegant finishing touches to 
the arrangement of the small wedding breakfast-table. 

Desiree, in an excited manner, began to say : 

“ Oui^ madame t Mademoiselle Feezegerle is vera ill !’ * 

But Miss Greenleaf cut her short by asking : 

“ Did your young lady send you for me ?” 

“ Oui^ madame ! Certainementl' 

“ Let us go to her then,” said Miss Greenleaf, leaving 
the dining-room and hastening to the chamber occu- 
pied by Geraldine. 

She found Miss Fitzgerald seated in her chair, look- 
ing more like a corpse than like a living woman. 

“ Geraldine, Geraldine, my dear girl, what is the mat- 
ter with you ?” anxiously inquired Miss Greenleaf, has- 
tening up to the chair and taking the cold hand of the 
sufferer. 

Miss Sue,” began Geraldine, in a voice she fruitlessly 
endeavored to render calm and collected — “I might 
just as well tell you the truth — and indeed it now seems 
— necessary to do so.” 

She paused, pressed her hand upon her chest and 
struggled for breath. 

Mademoiselle Desirde took a cut-glass vinaigrette 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


10 


from the dressing-table and placed it in her hands. 
Geraldine mechanically inhaled it, then let the vial fall, 
unheeded, to her lap, and strove to continue. 

“ I have quarreled — with Gerald,” she panted. “ Last 
night, I took just offense at his excessive attentions to 
Horatio Rowley, and to his neglect of myself. And — 
I broke with him — bade him to leave me — forever — 
bade him never — dare^ — to come into my presence 
again — ” 

Here her head sank upon her breast, and she paused 
so long that Miss Sue took her hand and said, with 
gentle sympathy : 

“ I am very sorry, Geraldine ; but do not take it to 
heart, my dear. All will come right again. It is a little 
awkward to have had a misunderstanding with Gerald 
just at this time ; but that is all. And fortunately there 
are no strange guests in the house. This has happened 
before and the quarrel has always been made up, as it 
will be again. Only let this be a warning to you, my 
dear, never more to indulge in such tempers which — ” 
Peace, peace, peace!” cried Geraldine, wildly snatch- 
ing her hand from the lady’s clasp. “ Oh, peace ! I do 
not know what you are saying ! He has taken me at 
my word ! He has gone away, never to return. There 
will be no wedding to-day. There never will be any 
wedding — any wedding. Oh 1 I mean — there has been 
a wedding — that is to say ! Oh, what am I talking 
about ?” 

Here the unhappy girl put her hand to her head and 
gazed with a bewildered and piteous expression into 
the kind and sympathizing face of Miss Sue. 

“ Geraldine, my dear child, you are not well. Let me 
help you to bed,” said Miss Sue, as she gently took the 
sufferer’s hand to lift her up. 

But Geraldine threw off the kind hand, exclaiming : 


20 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ No, no, no ! Not until I have burned the letters ! 
Not until I have burned the letters ! I may lose my 
life or reason, but I will not lose my dignity ! No 
human being shall ever know — shall ever, ever — Oh ! 
I tell you I must burn the letters !” she cried, starting 
up with crimson face and flaming eyes, and rushing 
across the room ; but before she had run half a dozen 
steps, she threw up her arms and fell heavily, face 
downward, to the floor. 

Miss Greenleaf and Desiree hastened to raise her up. 


CHAPTER II. 

Gertrude’s honeymoon. 

For myself alone 

I would not be ambitious in my wish, 

To wish myself much better; yet for you. 

And only to stand high in your account, 

I would in virtues, beauties, riches, friends. 

Exceed account; but the full sum of me 
Is sum of nothing; which to term, in short. 

Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractic’d ; 

Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
But she may learn ; happier than this, 

She is not bred so dull but she can learn. 

Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit 
Commits itself to yours to be directed. 

As from her lord, her governor, her king. 

— Shakespeare. 

The carriage containing the newly-married pair rolled 
slowly down the steep mountain road leading from the 
Old Red Sandstone Church to the River Turnpike. 

For the first few minutes the occupants sat in perfect 
silence. 

Gerald Fitzgerald was vainly trying to convince him- 
self that he had acted well and wisely in breaking with 


Gertrude's honeymoon. 


21 


the brilliant leopardess to whom he had been so long 
betrothed, but whose caresses were almost as fatal as 
her claws, and with whom he could never have hoped 
to live in peace or honor ; that he had done better and 
more wisely still by promptly raising an impassable bar- 
rier between himself and Geraldine, in securing as his 
wife the lovely child- woman beside him. 

But, ah, in spite of all his reasoning, his wounded 
heart still ached on and on ; for he still passionately 
loved the beautiful fury, who was the bane of his life ; 
and, now, since the receipt of her letter and the sending 
of his own, a strong reaction had set in, and he bitterly 
regretted the rash and reckless marriage into which he 
had rushed, not in love and not in prudence, but in 
wrath and in desperation — the fatal marriage to be for- 
ever repented, since it would forever separate him from 
her, whom, for good or for evil, he must forever worship ! 

But though now his soul was filled with despair, he 
preserved an outwardly calm and cheerful aspect, for he 
possessed great powers of self-control. He resolved 
that, from no act, word or look of his, should the gentle 
girl beside him, who had so unconditionally given her 
whole life to him,*ever know, or even suspect, how much 
worse than vain he felt her sacrifice to be. He could 
not bring himself to talk to her just yet, but he smiled 
on her from time to time, with much tenderness. 

And Gertrude ? 

At this moment she was happy. The simple maiden 
better understood her act than the wise man understood 
either hers or his own. 

She loved without self-love. She loved her husband 
with all her heart, soul and spirit, purely and simply, 
without one thought of how much love or good or hap- 
piness she was to get in exchange for the gift of her 
whole self. 


22 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


He had asked her to be his wife, and she had con- 
sented. Yes, more! He had her to be his wife, 

and she had obeyed him. She was his wife ; she be- 
longed to him now and forever more. She was sitting 
by his side ; that was enough ! Oh, yes, quite enough 
happiness for the present ; and, as for the future, she 
took no thought of it — the future was the Lord’s alone. 

Her face was always lovely in its serene meekness ; 
but now it seemed transfigured to a calm, divine beauty, 
that touched even the embittered spirit beside her. 

He smiled on her, not with love, certainly, still less 
with passion, but with an infinite tenderness, as he took 
her little hand in his and gently inquired : 

Gertrude, are you sure that you are happy with me ?” 

“Yes, sir ; very sure, if only I may help to m'ake jyou 
happy ; and, oh, indeed, / think it is in me to do so** she 
murmured, earnestly, as she pressed both hands to her 
true hear, and then blushed softly at her own vehem- 
ence. 

“You do not fear to trust your future with me ?” he 
inquired, almost compassionately, as he looked down in 
her loving and trusting face. “You are sure you do 
not fear to trust yourself with me ?” 

“ Oh; no, no, no, sir ; indeed, I do not !” she answered, 
fervently, shaking her head and raising her eyes to his 
with a timid yet beaming smile. 

“ Child, dear child, you look as though you had taken 
a spring into the light, instead of ‘ a leap in the dark,’ ’ 
he exclaimed, in wondering pity. 

“ Oh, sir, it is, it is for me a passing into the light,” 
she murmured, and then again blushed and cast down 
her eyes in a sudden shame at her own earnest truth- 
fulness. 

“Gertrude,” he inquired, very gently, “will you 
promise me one thing ?” 


Gertrude's honeymoon. 


23 


‘‘Yes, sir. I will promise you anything,” she an- 
swered, promptly. 

“ Well, then, promise me this : that from this time for- 
ward, whatever wish may arise in your mind, however 
extravagant it may seem to you, you will, without hesi- 
tation, at once express it to me, so that I may gratify it. 
Will you do so, Gertrude ?” 

“ Oh, Colonel Fitzgerald !” 

“ Will you do so, Gertrude ?” 

“Yes, sir, certainly, since you desire me.” 

“ That is right. Listen, now. If ever you wish to go 
to any part of the world, no matter how far off, you will 
tell me, so that I may take you there.” 

“ Oh, Colonel Fitzgerald !” 

“ You have promised Gertrude. Will you keep your 
promise .?” 

“Yes, sir, I will.” 

“ And in the cities through which we are about to 
pass, if you should see anything you wish to possess, 
you must let me know immediately, that I may procure 
it for you.” 

“ Oh, sir — ” 

“ I have your word, Gertrude. Will you keep your 
word ?” 

“Yes, sir, certainly, I will.” 

“Very well. This pleases me. I shall endeavor to 
anticipate your wishes, my dear child ; but never having 
had sisters, I am a novice in the experience of young 
women’s tastes ; so you will have to teach me. When 
we reach Washington, my dear child, I shall take meas- 
ures to make such settlements upon you as shall render 
you independent in a financial point of view. That, 
indeed, will be but simple justice.” 

“You are so very, very good to me. Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, that — I do not know what to say ; but, oh, I 


24 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


hope, I do hope that the Lord will enable me to merit 
some of all this goodness,” said Gertrude, earnestly. 

“Sweet girl, I know one thing, and that is that 
all I can ever do for you will never be enough,” an- 
swered Gerald Fitzgerald, with a deep sigh. (“ No, all 
I can do for her can never be enough, since I cannot 
love her as she deserves to be loved — since I cannot 
choose but love another — the woman I have cast off.”) 

The carriage had now descended from the mountain 
road upon the smooth river turnpike, which ran along, 
under the shadow of Wild Cat Cliffs on the right, and 
with the shore of the Wilde river on the left. 

As they bowled along this pleasant road, they came 
in sight of the magnificent old Summit Manor House, 
perched upon the top of the cliff, its dark red walls 
glowing in the gorgeous sunlight. Gerald Fitzgerald 
called Gertrude’s attention to it. 

“ There is our future home, my little Lady of the 
Manor. What do you think of it ?” 

“It is a palace very grand and beautiful in itself, 
much grander and more beautiful in its position,” an- 
swered Gertrude, gazing at it with admiring eyes. 

“ Well appreciated, my little lady,” he said, with a 
smile. 

Meanwhile the carriage passed on, leaving the Manor 
House far behind. 

“We shall soon come in sight of H addon’s Ferry, my 
dear Gertrude, where, of course, we shall have to cross 
the river. We must stop at the house for a few mo- 
ments, however, to water the horses. This will give you 
an opportunity to take leave of your old home and old 
servants, as you would like to do, I presume, my child,” 
said Gerald Fitzgerald, kindly. 

“ Oh, thanks ! Yes, indeed, I shopld. Colonel Fitzger- 
ald,” she eagerly exclaimed. 


Gertrude’s honeymoon. 


25 


“ Then we will certainly stop there — Mrs. Fitzgerald." 

She looked up suddenly in droll astonishment and 
anxiety, as fearing lest in some way she had already dis- 
pleased her new-made husband. But she saw on his face 
an expression of comic solemnity, which she, in her turn, 
met with a smile. 

“ My dear little bride,” he said, “ can you not teach 
those meek, sweet lips of yours to call your husband by 
his given name ? I call you Gertrude always when I 
name you. Can you not call me Gerald ? To all the 
world I may be Colonel Fitzgerald ; but to my little wife 
I must be Gerald. Do you understand, little one ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“No, not ‘sir’ — ^ Geraldl Come now let me hear 
you say : ‘Gerald.’ ” 

“ Yes, sir — ‘ Gerald ?’ ” 

“ No, no, no, no ! What a stupid little pupil you are, 
to be sure ! ‘ Gerald not ‘ Sir Gerald.’ I am not a 

baronet, nor even a knight ; therefore, hot ‘ Sir ’ Any- 
body. I am simply a gentleman, and to you I am ‘ Ger- 
ald.’ Come, try again, my child.” 

“ Yes, Gerald,” she murmured softly, slowly, shyly, 
and then her meek face suddenly brightened with inno- 
cent delight, like that of a child who has succeeded in 
repeating a pleasant lesson. 

“‘Gerald.’ That is right. I never thought the old 
historic name half so musical before ! I must press the 
sweet lips that uttered it,” he murmured, as he gazed 
down on her lovely, beaming face, and stooped and gave 
his first voluntary kiss. 

Apparently it was not so distasteful a duty, after all, 
for he suddenly passed his arm around her waist, drew 
her to his bosom, and repeated the experiment many 
times. And Gertrude was made happy in the belief that 
he truly loved her. 


26 


TH^: REJECTED BRIDE. 


In a few minutes they came in sight of the ferry, with 
its old-fashioned, double stone house standing back 
against the cliff, its old, overgrown and intertangled 
garden running down to the beach, its two boat-houses . 
each side of the little pier, and its fleet of boats ready 
for service. 

As they drew up to the gate they caught sight of 
Aunt Jess, sitting on the sill of the door, with her well- 
worn hymn-book on her knees (probably upside down), 
singing a revival hymn not to be found in that or in any 
other volume : 

I lef^ my sin.s in de wilderness ! 

In de wilderness ! 

In de wilderness ! 

I lef’ my sins in de wilderness ! 

Glory hallelujah !” 

Raising her eyes, she caught sight of the carriage and 
its occupants, started to her feet and dropped her hymn- 
book, exclaiming : 

“ Well, I ’clar’ to man, ef here don’t come de bride and 
groom, Marse Colonel and Miss Geraldine, in de com- 
mon Wildevillyun hack, widouten no outriders ! Nebber 
heerd of such a flng in all de days ob my life. But ‘ dem 
as libs de most sees de longest,’ as de ole sayin’ says. 
Heap o’ sense in dem dere ole sayin’s.” 

So muttering, she stooped and picked up her hymn- 
book, and hurried around to the alley leading to the 
back-yard, shouting : 

^^John! John! John! Here’s de weddin’ers we 
been ’spectin’, cornin’ to cross de ferry !” 

Meanwhile the carriage drew up to the garden-gate, 
and the coachman got down and opened the door. 

Colonel Fitzgerald alighted and handed Gertrude out, 
drew her arm within his own, and led her through the 
rustic gate and up the garden-walk to the Jerry-house. 

The front-door was ajar, and they entered without 


Gertrude’s honeymoon. 


27 


knocking-, and met Aunt Jess, who had at the same mo- 
ment come in at the back-door. 

“ Well, auntie, how do you do ?” said Colonel Fitzger- 
ald, taking her dark hand cordially. “ I have brought 
your young mistress to bid you good-bye before she 
leaves the neighborhood. You must give her your best 
wishes. She will need them, poor child, for she is now 
my wife.” 

During this salutation, Jess stood aghast in pure 
amazement, her eyebrows going up and her chin going 
down. But when Colonel Fitzgerald ceased to speak 
she found her voice, and exclaimed : 

“ My-y-y — eyes !'* 

“ Come, come, old nurse, will you not wish us joy ?” 
inquired Colonel Fitzgerald, smiling at her grotesque 
astonishment. 

Well, ‘ wonders we ’ll never see !’ as de old sayin’ 
says. Heap o’ sense in dem ole sayin’s,” cried Jess, still 
staring. 

“ Come, Gertrude, love, let me take you into your own 
old parlor and find a seat. We must leave our old nurse 
here to recover her wits at her leisure,” said Gerald 
Fitzgerald, as he turned to the door of the sitting- 
room. 

“ Stop, honey, I ’s ’covering of my wits as fast as I 
can !” exclaimed old Jess, hurrying past them and open- 
ing the door, with all the politeness consistent with her 
intense amazement. 

Gerald Fitzgerald led his bride into the room and 
placed her in an easy-chair. 

‘‘ You know, chillun, I wasn’t lookin’ for dis, I was 
lookin’ for what we ’d been a ’spectin’ dese many years 
— Marse Gerald and Miss Geraldine bride and groom — 
now, when I see Marse Gerald and Miss Gertrude bride 
and groom, it sort o’ ’stonished me, jes’ like ^puttin’ new 


28 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


bottles into ole wine,’ as de ole sayin’ says. Heap o* 
sense in dese ole sayin’s, chillun, ’deed dere is. Hear 
me good, don’t yer ? And so, Marse Gerald, you done 
married our Miss Gertrude, sure enough ?” 

“ Yes, auntie, I have married your Miss Gertrude,” re- 
plied Colonel Fitzgerald, sinking into a chair beside his 
young bride. 

“’Deed is yer now, for true?” repeated Jess, a little 
incredulously. 

“ Shall I show you the marriage certificate ?” laugh- 
ingly inquired the colonel. 

“ G ’long way from here, Marse Gerald ! Fink I can’t 
take yer word for it ’dout seein’ de sitifickit ? ’Sides 
which, what I know ’bout a fistifickit ? / can’t read — 
dat is, I can’t read nuffin but my hymn-book, and I 
couldn’t read dat, if I didn’t know the hymns by heart L 
I shouldn’t know a diffitickit ef I was to see one ! And 
so you ralely is married to Miss Gertrude ?” 

“I really am,” said Gerald Fitzgerald, laughing in 
spite of his aching heart. 

“ And is you married to him^ too, honey ?” asked the 
puzzled old nurse. 

“ Of course I am, Aunt Jess,” said Gertrude. 

“ Well, Lord, I don’t understand it ! I’m ’feared as 
I ’m a-getting luny !” said Aunt Jess, scratching her red, 
yellow and plaid tuAan until it dropped over one eye. 
“Yes, I ’s ’feared I ’s getting luny, Marse Gerald and 
Miss Gertrude. 

‘ He wed to she. 

She wed to he/ 

as de ole song say. Heap o’ sense in dem ole songs, too ; 
but, somehow, I can’t believe it. Say, honeys — Marse 
Gerald and Miss Gertrude — ^is you two married togedder 
for surtain? I on’y jes’ ax for inferation, not as I has 
any dejections to the match.” 


Gertrude’s honeymoon. 


29 


“Come, come, Jess, this is getting monotonous,” said 
the colonel, smiling through his impatience. 

“ Getting mono — what ? Does yer mean money ? 
’Cause ef yer do, I dunno whar it ’s to come from. 
There hasn’t been fifty dollars took in the ferry for the 
last two weeks to my surtain knowledge. But did you 
two tell me as you was actilly both married togedder 
’till deaf do you part ?” 

“Jess, you are tiresome,” said the colonel, rising. 

“Yes, Aunt Jess, we are married,” said Gertrude, 
patiently. 

“ But what ’s come o’ Miss Geraldine ? Dat ’s what 
I want to know ?” inquired Jess. 

“ Miss Fitzgerald is at Greenwood, and in good health 
at the last hearing,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. “And 
now, aqntie, we hope you will give that aged tongue of 
yours a long autumn holiday from asking questions.” 

“ And, Aunt J ess, set the table and arrange the best 
lunch you can get for us ; for we have not broken our 
fast since early morning,” suggested Gertrude, who, 
womanlike, on hospitable thoughts intent, was caring 
more for the wants of her husband than for her own. 

“ That was a provident idea of yours, little house- 
wife,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, patting her on the shoul- 
der. 

Aunt Jess bustled about, set out the table with a 
clean, white table-cloth and the best china service, and 
soon arranged upon it a rustic feast of light bread, fresh 
butter, cream, milk, peaches, pears and grapes. 

The newly-married couple partook slightly of these 
refreshments, and then arose from the table to return 
to the carriage, which was waiting for them at the 
ferry. It was then that Gertrude asked to be excused 
for a few moments and went upstairs to her own old 
bedroom, where she had left some of her wardrobe 


30 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


when she went to Greenwood, and from which she 
selected a few changes of clothing, which she packed 
into a travelling-bag, to take with her to the carriage. 

She then changed her white Organdie dress, in which 
she had been so hastily married and brought away 
from church, for a gray merino, which she found hang- 
ing up in her closet. 

While Gertrude was so engaged. Old Jess was trying 
to “ interview ” her young master. 

‘‘Well, now de young madam ’s gone upstairs, 'haps 
you will tell yer ole auntie all how and about it, an’ why 
yer didn’t marry Miss Geraldine,” said the old woman, 
in a wheedling tone. 

“ Now, if I answer that question, will you promise me 
never to ask any more ?” inquired Gerald Fitzgerald. 

“Yes, Marse Colonel, dat I will. And I is yer ole 
nuss.” 

“ Well, then. Miss Fitzgerald cast me off, and Ger- 
trude accepted me ; that is all.” 

“ Well, Marse Colonel, for your sake, I s glad of it ; 
for your own sake, you ’s done well. For dat Miss Ger- 
aldine — Mfiph-oome^ honey ! — she’ s inguns, she is. But 
our Miss Gertrude — oh, honey, she ’s a hebbenly angel, 
and she always was, from her babyhood up. Be good 
to her, honey, and ef so be yer ebber repents ob what 
yer has done to-day, don’t take it out on her^ honey, 
don’t take it out on her^ dat ’s all I got to say, don’t take 
it out on herP 

“Why, Jess, how dare you? What do you mean?” 
impatiently exclaimed Gerald Fitzgerald. “ And what 
the demon do you take me for ?” 

“For man^ honey, dat ’s all, jes for man. Man allers 
lay his sins and sorrows on wimmin, and takes his spite 
out on dem., allers ; from dat ole cowardly sneak, Adam, 
as laid all his pickin’s and stealin’s on Eve, down to dis 


Gertrude’s honeymoon. 


31 


day. Doug-li as for I don’t believe as Eve ever 

had anyfing at all to do wid stealing dat apple. ’Taint 
no ways likely ! I believe it was all Adam’s own doings 
from fust to last, and den, when he got found out, he 
went and laid it all on Eve. But dats neider here nor 
dere. What I mean to say is, Marse Colonel, if yer goes 
and ’pents ob what yer’s done in haste dis day, don’t go 
for to lay de blame all on her^ nor, likewise, take yer 
spite out on her. Dere ! I ’s done my duty and said 
my say, ef yer kills me for it, de nex’ minute !” said 
Aunt Jess, sturdily. 

“Jess, how dare you speak in that manner to me? 
Yet, why should I be angry with you, faithful creature? 
You do your duty bravely by the orphan child I have 
ventured to make my wife. Be at ease, good, honest 
nurse. Gertrude’s happiness shall be the first object of 
my life. Be sure of that, good nurse,” said Gerald Fitz- 
gerald, with much emotion. 

“ Dat 's you, Marse Gerald ! Dat ’s you, yourself ! 
Now, keep to dat^ honey, in temptation’s hour ! Make 
her happy, honey ! Put her in your bosom and wear 
her there, for she is a pure jewel, chile ! And here she 
comes now. Don’t let her see us talkin’,” said old Jess, 
as she moved away from her master’s side, and affected 
to be busy with, clearing away the lunch. 

Gertrude entered in her travelling-dress, with her 
heavy leather bag in hand. 

Gerald hastened to relieve her of it, saying : 

“ Was there no one to bring this down but you?” 

“ Oh, John Brooks or Aunt Jessie would either of them 
have done so, if I had called them. But the bag was 
very light, and I have carried much heavier weights,” 
said Gertrude, smiling. 

. “ Bid your old nurse good-bye, my love. We must be 
going, even now,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 


32 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Aunt Jessie, good-bye. I shall see you again when 
I come back this way,” said Gertrude, warmly pressing 
the hand of her old nurse. 

“ Good-bye, my dear young mist 'ess. May de 
bless and prosper you, my good child!” cried the ' i.a 
woman, warmly kissing the hands with which Gertrude 
had caressed her. 

“ Good-bye, Aunt Jess. Take care of yourself and the 
ferry,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he tucked the arm of 
Gertrude under his own and led her out. 

Old Jess, however, followed behind. 

They all reached the pier where the flat-boat waited 
to take the carriage over. 

Again Gertrude bade adieu to her old servant and 
entered the carriage, which was immediately driven 
upon the boat. 

Colonel Fitzgerald followed, but stood without, near 
the side of the carriage, and took an oar to help the 
ferry-man, John Brooks, to pull the great boat across 
the river. 

This so expedited their speed that the passage wa^ 
made in a few minutes. 

The carriage was driven off the boat on to the Eagl 
Roost Pier. 

John Brooks came to the door, hat in hand, and t(^>i 
a respectful leave of his young mistress. 

Colonel Fitzgerald then entered the vehicle and placed 
himself beside Gertrude, and gave the order to drive on. 
The first mile of the journey, along a rocky and rugged 
road at the foot of Eagle Roost Ridge, along the east 
shore of the Wilde, was so rough and difficult as to pre- 
vent all comfortable conversation. 

After that the road grew better as the carriage neared 
Wildeville. They were but two miles from the village 
when their attention was arrested by a noise far behind 





-vj.* 


r 




JH 


NEARER AND DEARER. 


33 


them — the sound of swiftly galloping horses’ feet, ac- 
companied by loud shouts. 

“ Stop ! Stop ! Stop ! Stop !” 

“ The man is shouting for us ! What can he want ?” 
said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he pulled the check-string 
and stopped the carriage. 

“ It is Boykins, from the rectory,” said Gertrude, as 
she gazed through the back window of the carriage on 
the rapidly advancing rider. What can be the matter 


CHAPTER III. 

NEARER AND DEARER. 

My fond affection thou hast seen. 

Then judge of my regret 
To think more happy thou hadst been 
If we had never met. 

And has that thought been shared by thee ? 

Ah, no, that smiling cheek 
Proves more unchanging love for me 

Than labored words can speak. — T. H. Bayly. 

The horseman drew up at the carriage door and 
touched his hat. 

“ Is anything the matter, Boykins ?” inquired Colonel 
Fitzgerald, while Gertrude looked eagerly on. 

“ No, Marse Colonel, not a thing ; only Miss Patricia 
sent me arter you, pos’-has’e, to fetch this yer bag and 
this note to Miss Gertrude,” said the man, detaching a 
large black travelling-bag from the pommel of the sad- 
dle and handing it into the carriage, and then drawing 
a small blue envelope from his vest pocket and deliver- 
ing it to the little lady. 

Colonel Fitzgerald stowed away the bag, and Ger- 


34 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 

trude opened her note, while Boykins stood by, hat in 
hand. 

Patricia’s note ran thus : 

‘‘The Rectory, Tuesday Afternoon. 

“ My Poor, Dear, Deluded Little Gertie; After you had 
gone off in that wild way, and I had time to come to my senses, 
I remembered that you would require some changes of clothing 
and other necessaries of life, which neither you nor your captor 
had once thought of. So I have packed a bag to dispatch it by 
Boykins. I hope he will overtake you before the stage-coach 
leaves Wildeville. 

“Now, you two harum-skarum children, take heed to the good 
counsel of one who is wiser, if not older, than yourselves. 

“Take care of yourselves. Keep your hair combed and your 
faces washed and your shoes tied. Be polite to all your fellow- 
travellers ; be ever ready to lend them your book, your news- 
paper, your penknife or anything they may need, except your 
hair-brushes — don’t lend your hair-brushes, whatever you do ; as 
for lending your tooth-brushes, that is a mere matter of taste. 
Finally don’t quarrel ; for, ‘ children, you should never let such 
angry passions rise. Your little hands were never made to tear 
each other’s eyes.’ 

“I have been writing this while Boykins has been putting the 
saddle on Gerald’s horse, which fortunately was left here; for if 
my messenger had to ride the rector’s cob, he would never over- 
take you. Here he comes, so now I must stop. Receive my 
benediction. Patricia Fitzgerald.” 

“ Any answer, miss ?” inquired the man. 

“No answer, thank you, Boykins, except this — give 
my grateful love to Miss Patricia, and add that I will 
write to her from Washington,” replied Gertrude, as 
she refolded her letter and dropped it into her pocket. 

“ And take this for y^our trouble, my good fellow, for 
you have made haste, though I scarcely think you 
could have overtaken us, however, before we reached 
Wildeville, if it had not happened that we were de- 
tained at the ferry,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he 
dropped a gold coin into the hand of the messenger. 

Boykins bowed, touched his hat, turned his horse’s 


NEARER AND DEARER. 


35 


head, and galloped off, but almost immediately turned 
again and galloped back. 

“ What now ?” inquired the colonel. 

“ If you please, sir, shall I keep your horse at the 
rectory stables, or shall I send him home to the Sum- 
mit ?” respectfully inquired the man. 

“You must keep him until the arrival of one of my 
grooms, who will take him home. Any other instruc- 
tions needed, my good man ?“ 

“ No, sir ; thank you, sir,” answered Boykins with a 
deep bow, as he turned again and rode off. 

The carriage drove on, and in about twenty minut.es 
entered Wilde ville. 

Wilde ville was one of those picturesque, mountain 
towns, so frequently to be found in West Virginia. 

It was built on the east bank ‘of the Wilde River, 
under the shadow of Eagle Roost Ridge. It consisted 
mainly of one street, which was also a one-sided street, 
as the houses were all built with their backs to the 
mountains and their faces to the water. A few scatter- 
ing cottages were also perched, like crows’ nests, wher- 
ever they could find a lodgment on the mountain-side. 

The hotel, known as the Antlers, with its stables 
and offices, occupied a position about midway down the 
village-street. The court-house, the county jail and 
the alms-house were at the south end of the town. 

Our travellers entered by the south end and drew up 
before the Antlers, a substantial, two-storied building of 
red sandstone, with upper and lower piazzas running all 
around the house. 

As the carriage stopped, several negro servants started 
up from their lounging positions in front of the house 
and ran to tender their services. 

One took the horses’ heads ; another opened the car- 
riage-door ; a third let down the steps. 


36 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Gerald Fitzgerald alighted, handed out his companion, 
drew her arm within his own, and led her into the house, 
at the door of which he was met by the polite, old-fash- 
ioned landlord, who stared a little at seeing a bride who 
was not Geraldine Fitzgerald, but who quickly recovered 
himself and, bowing profoundly, said : 

“ I am proud to see you. Colonel Fitzgerald, and I beg 
to offer my sincere good wishes to yourself and Mrs. 
Fitzgerald.” 

“ I thank you, sir, for myself and Mrs. Fitzgerald,” re- 
plied the bridegroom, very courteously. 

“ Will you do me the honor to walk into the parlor ?” 
inquired the landlord, with a polite wave of his hand to- 
ward an open door on the left-hand side of the entrance 
hall. 

Colonel Fitzgerald bowed assent and led Gertrude 
into a neat sitting-room, with white- washed walls, white - 
curtained windows, waxed pine floor and flowered 
chintz-covered easy* chairs and sofas and plain cherry- 
wood stands and tables. 

“ Shall I have the honor of serving you with refresh- 
ments, Colonel Fitzgerald ?” inquired the landlord. 

“ Thanks, no, Mr. Eastup ; but be good enough to tell 
me how long it will be before the stage-coach for Wash- 
ington stops here.” 

“Well, sir, in from about fifteen to thirty minutes. It 
is now half-past four. It is due at five ; but it is never 
regular.” 

“ Thanks. That will do, Mr. Eastup.” 

The landlord bowed and withdrew. 

Gerald Fitzgerald turned to Gertrude, saying : 

“ Will you mind staying here for a few moments alone, 
my child, while I go out to do a little errand in the vil- 
lage?” 

“ Oh, no, sir, not at all,” said Gertrude, cheerfully. 


NEARER AND DEARER. 


37 


“ ‘ Sir ?’ ” repeated Colonel Fitzgerald, playfully. 

“ I shall not mind staying here alone for a few mo- 
ments — Gerald,” she said, amending her speech. 

And again her meek, lovely face flashed with light 
and color. 

“ That is right,” he said, and stooped and kissed the 
sweet lips that had uttered his name. 

And, considering he did not love his little bride, I 
think he was rather fond of kissing her. 

“ Now, Gertrude, as I go out I will speak to Eastup, 
and tell him not to let you be annoyed by the intrusion 
of strangers,” said he, as he turned to leave the room. 

“ Oh, but I do not mind strangers at all, and it would 
be a pity to keep people out of a room they have a right 
to enter, like the public parlor of the hotel,” said Ger- 
trude. 

“ Nevertheless, I shall tell him. I will not have you 
subjected to the gaze of village groups,” replied Colonel 
Fitzgerald, with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“ She wants delicacy, wants refinement, poor child ! 
But what can I expect ?” he added, mentally, and with a 
deep sigh, as he left the room. 

He was mistaken. In Gertrude’s pure spirit there was 
no want of true delicacy and refinement ; but there was 
a total absence of pride and egotism. 

She was keenly sensitive. She perceived the slight 
change in her husband’s tone, in his look, in his manner. 
She felt that she had displeased him by her words, but 
she could not understand how or why. 

How, indeed, should a spirit as meek as hers under- 
stand the scornful hauteur of the “ Summit Fitzgeralds ?” 

No, she could not comprehend, but she could deeply 
feel, and her heart sickened and fainted under the im- 
pression of her husband’s displeasure. 

She shivered with cold, not only from the chill air of 


38 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


the late September afternoon in the mountains, but also 
from a strange nervousness ; and the square white 
Paisley shawl she wore was but a thin protection 
against the weather of the hour and the season. 

She knew that she had no warmer wrap in the bag 
she had brought from the ferry ; but she thought per- 
haps that Patricia might have packed one in the larger 
bag that thoughtful girl had sent by Boykins. 

She set the bag upon the chair and opened and exam- 
ined it ; but no, there was no shawl. There were some 
changes of under-clothing ; some cuffs and collars ; a 
dozen pocket-handkerchiefs ; comb and brushes ; nee- 
dles and thread, thimble and scissors ; a vial of ink, a 
pen and a roll of writing-paper and a bottle of cologne 
— that was all. 

She closed the bag with a sigh, as she shivered and 
thought of the coming night journey through the moun- 
tains. 

But not long did that thought occupy her mind ; it 
gave place to the deeper disturbance she felt in wonder- 
ing why her simple words had so annoyed her husband ; 
and though she continued to shiver with cold, she 
could think of nothing but his displeasure. 

In a few moments, however, he reentered the parlor, 
bringing in his hands a big parcel, which he laid upon 
the table and proceeded to unwrap, displaying a large 
silver-gray shawl of the finest Shetland wool. 

Gertrude watched him, knowing that it was intended 
for herself, even before he doubled it cornerwise, and 
laid it over her shoulders and folded it across her 
breast, saying, as he did so : 

“ I am an awkward lady’s-maid, love ; so, if I make a 
mistake, you must correct it — do you hear ?” 

“Oh, thank you so much, Gerald. You are so very 
kind, to think of getting this for me,” she niurmured, as 


KEAkfeR AND DEARER. 


3d 

she adjusted her soft, warm wrap, with a smile of per- 
fect appreciation. 

“ Kind — /kind ? Never say that of me, Gertrude. I 
am not kind — Heaven forgive me ! — least of all am I 
kind to you. But I knew that you would need a warm 
shawl for your night journey across the mountains. 
And here,” he added, going back to the table, and tak- 
ing up a fleecy white hood, “ put this in your bag, to 
replace your hat when you grow tired on the journey 
and want to lie back in your seat and sleep.” 

“ And yet you say you are not kind to me, Gerald ?” 
she softly inquired, as she received the gift and looked 
gratefully up into his face. 

“ No, little Gertrude, not kind to you. I wish I were,” 
he repeated, with a sigh. 

Every trace of displeasure and annoyance had disap- 
peared from his countenance. 

‘‘ Gerald,” she began, in a low, hesitating voice — “ Ger- 
ald, just now, were you really offended with me ?” 

“ ‘ Offended ’ with you, child ? Certainly not. Who 
could ever be offended with you ? And why should you 
fancy that I was ?” he inquired gravely. 

“ Oh, because I thought you looked so.” 

“ When, Gertrude ?” 

“ When I said I did not mind strangers.” 

“ Oh ! And you noticed that ? Well, dear, I was just a 
little annoyed at the thought of — no matter, dear child. 
I could not be offended with you.” 

“Gerald,” she said plaintively, “you see I do not 
know much ; but I want to do right and to please you 
more than anything else in the world. Will you always 
tell me if I do wrong, so that I may correct myself ?” 

“ Perhaps, little Gertrude— but, you will do nothing 
wrong ; whatever else you do you will not do wrong. 
And now, sweet little wife, here comes the stage-coach, 


40 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


and here comes a man to tell us that it is ready,'' 
he added, as he drew her arm within his own and led 
her out into the hall. 

The man took up Gertrude’s two bags and followed 
them. 

“ Can you tell me if the trunk I sent from the Summit 
has arrived yet?” inquired Colonel Fitzgerald, of the 
porter. 

“ Yes, sir ; and it has been put in the boot of the stage,” 
answered the man, as he went to the waiting coach and 
officiously opened the door. 

Gerald Fitzgerald handed his bride in and seated her 
on the back seat, taking his place at her side. 

There was but one other passenger — a tall woman 
muffied up in a long black cloak, the hood of which was 
drawn over her head, while her face was completely 
hidden behind a thick black vail. 

On leaving the town, the stage-coach also left the 
river-bank, taking the old turnpike road, leading east- 
ward, through a rugged ravine, with the Eagle Roost 
Ridge on the north and the bristling precipice of the 
Hog’s Back on the south. 

The short autumn afternoon soon closed in and the 
sun went down, leaving the passengers inside the coach 
in total darkness. 

The presence of a third person— a stranger — pre- 
cluded the possibility of any confidential conversation ; 
but, as the coach now and then, in passing over that 
rough road, gave a violent lurch, Gerald Fitzgerald kept 
his arm around the waist of his gentle companion, and 
at every bound of the heavy vehicle, he held her close 
to his breast. 

On the other side of this mountain-pass, the coach 
stopped at an old-fashioned post-house, called Under- 
bridge, to leave and take the mail, and to change horses. 


NEARER AND DEARER. 


41 


Here three passengers, all gentlemen, got in. And the 
coach went on. 

The road went downward now, toward the valley ; hut 
not by any regular descent, for many ridges and many 
ravines lay across it. Sometimes the old stage-coach 
crawled at a snail’s pace up a steep mountain-side, gained 
the top and then whirled down the other side, bounding 
and rebounding as it went, and threatening at every 
jump to pitch its body over the horses’ heads. 

On such occasions Gerald Fitzgerald would hold his 
little fellow-traveller very closely and firmly until the 
rushing, tumbling coach reached the base of the mount- 
ain in safety. 

Once, after an even unusually terrific downward flight, 
he pressed her to his side and inquired in a low tone : 

“ Does this frighten you, my child ?” 

“ Oh, no, indeed ; not at all.” 

I should think it would. Why does it not ?” 

“ Because your arm is around me, Gerald,” she mur- 
mured, nestling to his side with the innocent confidence 
of a child. Indeed, in many respects, Gertrude was like 
a child. 

Gerald Fitzgerald could not answer. He sighed heav- 
ily, and he folded her shawl more carefully around her, 
and told her to exchange the little straw hat she wore 
for the woolen hood he had got for her ; for the autumn 
night was cold among the mountains. 

They were now creeping up another ascent, and the 
slow motion of the coach enabled her to open her trav- 
elling-bag and get at her hood with ease. As soon as 
she took off her hat. Colonel Fitzgerald picked up and 
hung it to a strap from the roof of the coach, and Ger- 
trude tied the woolen hood over her head and under her 
chin. 

“ Now lean back and you will rest well,” he said. 


42 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


But they had now reached the mountain-top and com- 
menced the descent. He held her firmly as before, while 
the coach, bounding and rebounding as before, thun- 
dered down the precipitous road again, reaching the 
bottom in safety. 

But each time it did so it seemed a new miracle. 

At the foot of this mountain the stage-driver blew his 
horn, drove slowly on, drew up and stopped. 

Red lights gleamed out from the black darkness — some 
stationary, some moving. The first came from the 
windows of the post-house of Cedar Cliff, The second 
came from the lanterns of the hostlers, as they led from 
the stables the fresh horses that were brought to relieve 
the jaded beasts attached to the stage-coach. 

Here the three passengers who had got in the coach 
at Underbridge left it and entered a private carriage 
that seemed to be waiting for them. 

Colonel Fitzgerald bent to Gertrude and whis- 
pered : 

‘‘ Would you like to come out and go into the house 
for a few moments ? There are women in attendance, 
for the convenience of lady-passengers. It might 
refresh you to walk about for a little while ?” 

“ No, thanks, I am very comfortable. I would rather 
not leave my seat, if you please,” answered Gertrude. 

“ But you will not have another opportunity of stop- 
ping until we reach Fristburg, where we breakfast,” 
urged the colonel. 

“ I will get out if you wish me to do so ; but really I 
am very comfortable here,” replied Gertrude. 

“ Then stay where you are, child, of course,” said Col- 
onel Fitzgerald. But I must leave you for a little 
while. You will not be afraid?” 

“ Oh, no ! I was never afraid of anything in my 
life !” she answered brightly. 


NEARER AND DEARER. 


4B 

“Stop a moment. You ‘were never afraid of any- 
thing in your life ?’ ” 

“ No, never !” 

“ How was that ?” 

“ My grandfather taught me that nothing could hurt 
me but sin ; so long as I kept myself from sin I should 
be safe ; for the last thing that could happen to me in 
this world would be the death of my body ; and death is 
never to be feared — rather, indeed, if it were the Lord’s 
will, to be desired.” 

“ Do you desire death, Gertrude ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, no ! Not now, that I am to live with you. 
Once I did^ when I thought I shoud never see you again, 
but not now. I did not mean that. I only meant to tell 
you what grandfather taught me, and how I never 
feared anything on this earth, because of the lovely life 
beyond it.” 

“Was that the reason why you were so brave in cross- 
ing the Wilde at night, in a thunder-storm, to bring 
passengers over the ferry ?” inquired Colonel Fitzger- 
ald, wistfully. 

“ Perhaps so. I do not know. I never thought about 
it. Of course, when the call came and there was no one 
else to answer it, I had to go.” 

“ According to your own sense of duty.” 

“Yes, Gerald.” 

“ So you are not afraid to remain alone in the coach 
while I go into the post-house ?” 

“ Why, no, indeed ! What could possibly harm me 
here ? I should be the most pitiable of cowards to be 
afraid to stay alone in a coach, with so many people 
within call, even if there were a possibility of danger.” 

“Very well, child. So be it. Only I know many 
ladies are ‘ naturally born to fear,’ ” said Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, smiling. Then adding ; “ I will return in a 


44 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


few minutes,” he left the coach and walked over and 
entered the post-house. 

The place was a post-office and reading-room as well. 

He went straight to the reading-room and took up a 
Washington paper, which, though twenty-four hours 
old, was new to him. 

He turned with anxiety to the report of a criminal 
trial then in progress, and read with avidity all the 
details. He was still reading, when the warning sound 
of the stage-horn was heard, with the cry of : 

“ All aboard !” 

He then rushed to the bar, took nothing for himself, 
but thinking of the shivering girl in the coach, he 
ordered a hot port- wine sangaree and waited impatiently 
until it was prepared. Then he paid for both sangaree 
and glass, took himself to the coach and entered with it 
carefully, just as the horses started. 


CHAPTER IV. 

GONE ! LOST ! 

Confusion dwelt on every face, 

And fear in every heart. — Spectator. 

“ I have brought you some hot spiced wine to warm 
you, my child,” he said, as he carefully took his seat, 
with the glass in his hand. 

There was no answer. 

It was as dark as Erebus in the inside of the coach, 
and he could not see an inch before him. 

“ Put out your hand, Gertrude, that I may take it, be- 
fore I put the glass into it.” 

There was no answer. 


GONE ! LOST ! 


45 


“ She has fallen asleep. Do you hear me, Gertrude 
he asked, in a louder voice. 

No answer. 

“ Gertrude F' he cried, feeling about on the back seat. 

All was vacant there. 

Gertrude !” he called again, ‘steadying the glass, as 
well as he could, while he leaned over and felt all about 
in the darkness inside the coach. 

It was all vacant. He was the only passenger ! 

Then he opened a window, threw the glass of spiced 
wine out upon the ground, and shouted to the stage- 
driver to stop. 

But the horses were going at such a fearful rate that 
he could not at first make his voice heard. 

He shouted again, with all the strength of his power- 
ful lungs : ' 

“ Stop ! Stop ! There is a passenger left behind ! 
My wife is left behind !” 

The stage-driver pulled up, swearing. 

“ We are behind time now ! What ’s up ?” 

My wife is left behind." 

“ The deuce !" 

“ How far are we from Cedar Cliff ?" 

“ About half a mile ; and we are behind time, sir. I 
couldn't Stop nor go back for the President’s wife of the 
United States." 

“Then you must let me out immediately. I must 
walk back !" exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald. 

The stage-driver, with a muttered oath, got off his 
seat and came around to the door, bringing one of the 
box lanterns in his hands. 

“ Better take a good look inside first, sir. She may 
have dropped asleep in a corner somewhere," he said, as 
he handed the lantern to the passenger. 

Colonel Fitzgerald took the light and carefully in- 


46 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Spected the interior of the coach, not with any expecta- 
tion of finding Gertrude there, however. 

Her little straw hat was still hanging where he had 
placed it. Her two travelling-bags were still on the seat. 
Even her pocket-handkerchief was there. But not her- 
self. 

“ Of course she is not here ! I knew that quite well 
before I stopped the coach. She has been left behind at 
the post-house,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, impatiently. 

“ But how could such a thing have happened, sir ?” 

“ I do not know. I must get out and go back,” an- 
swered Gerald Fitzgerald, loading himself with Ger- 
trude’s effects and stepping from the coach. 

“And, about your trunk, sir? Shall I take it off ?” 

“ No ; take it on to Washington. We shall go on by 
the next coach.” 

“ All right, sir. I am sorry I cannot stop or go back 
for you ; but I daren’t do it, sir, if you was the President 
of the United States.” 

“ Of course, I do not expect you to do such a thing.” 

“ Good night, sir,” said the stage-driver, cracking his 
whip. 

“ Good night,” returned Colonel Fitzgerald. 

The driver started his horses and drove eastward. 

The colonel turned his steps back westward and 
walked down to the post-house. 

“ What a reckless little idiot she is, to be sure, to have 
left the stage-coach to wander about alone ! Why in 
the demon could she not have come out with me, when 
I invited and even urged her to do so ? But no, from 
some caprice or other, she must wait until I was out of 
sight and then creep out alone and get left behind ! 
I shall have some trouble to civilize my little savage !” 
growled Gerald Fitzgerald as he hurried along the dark 
turnpike leading back to the post-house. 


GONE ! LOST ! 


47 


The place was already closed up, and not a glimmer 
of light could be seen. 

A pack of watch-dogs burst up, barking in full chorus, 
as he came to the door. 

He spoke to them kindly, but was in some danger of 
being set upon, when a window was opened and a head 
thrust out, and an authoritative voice first called the 
dogs to order and then demanded : 

“ Who are you, and what the demon do you want here 
at this hour of the night ?” 

“ I am a passenger by the stage-coach that left here 
about twenty minutes ago, and I have come back for 
my wife, who has been left behind here. Come down 
and open the door,” answered Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Beg pardon, sir ! I really didn’t know who it was. 
Couldn’t see in the dark ! I will come down directly. 
But I reckon you are mistaken about the lady beinghere. 
There is no one staying here to-night but the family,” 
said the master of the house,* as he took his head in and 
closed the window. 

Gerald Fitzgerald’s heart sank under a vague fore- 
boding of evil. 

If Gertrude was not in the post-house, where could 
she be ? 

Meantime the man came down in his shirt-sleeves, 
with a tallow-candle, stuck in a brass candle-stick, held 
in his hand, and opened the door. 

“ You say that the lady is not here ?” anxiously inquired 
Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Yes, sir, I said so. She is not here, sir, I assure you. 
There is no one staying here to-night except the fam- 
ily,” replied the man with the candle. 

“ Pray excuse me, but I am almost certain that she is 
here. She must be here ! Where else should sh^— 
could she possibly be ? Will you have the goodness to 


48 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


inquire among the women of the family ?” requested Col- 
onel Fitzgerald, growing more anxious every moment. 

“ Certainly, sir ; though I don’t think it will be of any 
use ; but I will do it; of course. Who is the lady, if you 
please, sir, and what might be her name ?” 

“ She is my wife — Mrs. Fitzgerald. While I was look- 
ing over the papers in the reading-room she must have 
left her seat in the coach and come into the house, for 
when I went back and took my seat and let the coach 
start, supposing her to be there, I soon discovered her 
absence. She had been left behind. Pray make the 
necessary inquiries in the house, will you ?” 

“Yes, sir ; do come in and sit down, while I go and 
wake up the women,” said the man, as he led the way 
into the now deserted reading-room, lighted another 
candle and placed it on the table. 

Colonel Fitzgerald sank into a seat and dropped the 
travelling-bags he had brought from the coach at his 
feet on the floor. 

“ This is perfectly intolerable,” he exclaimed aloud, 
rising and beginning to walk up and down the room in 
his vexation. “ If she is not in this house, as Simpkins 
says she is not, then she must certainly have wandered 
off alone into the garden or the shubbery or the 
forest, and lost herself — who knows where ? At mid- 
night in a wilderness like this ! She is not only with- 
out any sense of fear but without any sense of decorum 
as well. But, after all, what can be expected of a weak 
girl, who at a moment’s notice could accept an offer of 
marriage made in an hour of madness ? Yet she seems 
a lovely little being, too !” 

While Colonel Fitzgerald was tormenting himself 
with these thoughts the door opened, and Mrs. Simpkins 
and her two grown daughters entered the reading- 
room, their faces brimful of excitement and curiosity. 


GONE ! LOST ! 


49 


“ Did you expect to find your lady here, sir ? There 
has been no lady entered this house to-night, sir, I 
could take my oath. Do tell me all about it, and may 
be I might be able to put you on the right track, sir,” 
said Mrs. Simpkin$. 

Colonel Fitzgerald repeated to her all he knew, or 
rather all he did not know, about the disappearance of 
his wife. 

“ I never heard of such a thing in all the days of my 
life,” said Mrs. Simpkins, while her two daughters, 
Becky and Sally, stared with their eyes and mouths 
wide open. 

“ Can you suggest anything ?” inquired Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, whose anxiety was now rising to extreme 
alarm. 

“ Indeed, I can’t, sir, unless the lady might have gone 
into some of the rooms without any one seeing of her, 
and she might have fainted dead away and be lying 
there now. ’Tain’t likely, I must say ; but, anyway, it 
is possible, and it can’t do no harm to sarch the house, 
if you would like* to have it done,” said the landlady. 

“ By all means, search the house, if you will be so 
good,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, throwing himself into 
his seat again. 

“Come, Beck and Sal, help me to look over the 
place,” said the good woman, leaving the room, fol- 
lowed by her two girls. 

The landlord lingered near his guest, asking a multi- 
tude of questions about the missing lady, which Colonel 
Fitzgerald answered or not, according to his discretion. 

At the expiration of a quarter of an hour, the land- 
lady and her daughters returned. 

Colonel Fitzgerald looked up eagerly. 

“Well, sir, we have searched well every nook and 
cranny in the house, and no lady is to be found in it. It 


50 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


is just as I said. She never did come into it,” said Mrs. 
Simpkins, emphatically. 

“ Then Heaven help her ! I cannot imagine where 
she is !” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, in great disturb- 
ance. 

“ There is a chance, sir, the lady may be in one of our 
negroes’ cabins. We have two log-cabins down on the 
edge of the wood. Suppose we send down. It wouldn’t 
do any hurt to inquire,” suggested Mr. Simpkins. 

“ Thanks, landlord. You need not send. We will go. 
I will follow you, if you will kindly lead the way,” said 
Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Old woman, you and the girls had better go back to 
bed. It is late,” said the landlord, as he left the room, 
followed by his guest. 

“ No, no, we don’t go to bed, neither I nor my girls, 
until we have heard what ’s become of the lady ; which 
if so be she is found, she ’ll require to be attended to I 
:reckon,” said the landlady, calling to her husband. 

The landlord took his tallow candle from the candle- 
stick and set it in a lantern, which he detached from its 
nail in the wall ; and so provided, he conducted his 
guest through the back door of the house, through the 
back yard, through the garden, through the orchard, 
through the cornfield, and finally to the edge of the 
woods where two log-cabins stood side by side in the 
midst of their little cabbage gardens. 

“ This is old Aunt Prissy’s cabin and that is young 
Peggy’s,” said.the landlord, as he rapped at the door of 
the first-named. 

“ Who dar ?” screamed a terrified voice from within. 

“ It is I, Priss, your master ! I want to sjeak to you !” 
said Mr. Simpkins. 

Well den, Marse Tom, I don’t want to speak to you 
dis unrippitable hour ob the night, and I think it berry 


GONE ! LOST ! 


51 


disrespectable in any ’sponsible ’spectable father ob a 
family like you to be a prowling about at dis hour ob 
night like any ole fox. And so, I tell yer good, too !” 
growled the voice from within. 

“ Don’t be a fool, Priss ! Answer me ! Is there any 
lady in the house with you ? Or have you seen any 
strange lady around anywhere, since the arrival of the 
stage-coach to-night ?” demanded the landlord. 

“ ‘ Lady ?' ” repeated the woman, in a tone of disgust. 
“ Lady ? G ’long ’way from here, Marse Tom ! Ye ’s 
been drinking !” 

“ The insolence of these spoiled old servants is past 
belief !” exclaimed Mr. Simpkins, impatiently. Then 
putting his lips- to the knot-hole in the door, he said, 
soothingly : 

“ Come, Priss, there is a lady missing from the stage- 
coach. We think she may have stopped at one of these 
cabins. Have you seen anything of her ?” 

“No, I hasn’t ! There ain’t been no lady nowhere 
about here, I ’ll take my davy to that ! There ain’t been 
no lady ’bout here nor anywhere else, ’cept ’t is in your 
giddy brain, Marse Tom ! You better go home an’ go 
to bed, and sleep off de liquor ! Dat ’s what you better 
do !” 

Simpkinsk laughed, and turned to his guest, saying : 

“ Well, it is pretty certain that the missing lady is not 
in Prissy s cabin ; but we will now try Peggy’s,” he 
added, as he went and knocked at the other door. 

Another frightened voice from the house cried out : 

“ Who dar ?” 

“ It is I, Peggy, your old master ! Come to the door, 
my good girl !” 

“ Oh, Marse Tom, is anyfing de matter up to de big 
house ?” anxiously inquired the girl, as she was heard 
moving hastily about within the cabin. 


52 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ No ; but you are wanted. Come to the door quick- 
ly,” said her master. 

The girl soon made her appearance, looking as if she 
had hurried her clothing on. 

The same question was put to her. 

“ Have you seen a strange lady anywhere about here ?” 

“ ‘ Lady ?’ Lor’, no, sir ! I ain’t seen no strange lady 
about here, never in my life. What lady you ’quiring 
about, marster ?” said the perplexed girl. 

“ A young lady. How was she dressed, sir ?” inquired 
the landlord, breaking off in his talk to • the girl, and 
turning to the guest. 

“ She was wrapped in a large gray shawl, and wore a 
white woolen hood,” answered the colonel. 

“You hear, Peggy? A young lady, in a large gray 
shawl and a white woolen hood. Have you seen such a 
one where ?” demanded the landlord. 

“ Lor’, no, Marse Tom ; what I tell you ! Is de lady 
lost or strayed, or what, marse ?” 

“ The lady was accidentally left behind by the stage- 
coach. And we fear that in walking about she has lost 
her way.” 

“ Dere, now, marse ! I alters say what a careless cree- 
tur’ dat white man is, what dribe dat stage. To go an’ 
leabe a lady behind ! Who was de lady, mai»se, if I may 
make so bold as to ax ?” 

“ She is Mrs. Fitzgerald — this gentleman’s wife. You 
are sure you have not seen her ?” 

“ Hi, no, marse ! What I keep telling of you ? Fink 
I ’m lying ?” 

“ No. Well, since you have not seen her, you must 
come and help us to look for her. Have you got a lan- 
tern in the house ?” 

“ Yes, marse, two of um.” 

“ Then light both and bring then^out.” 


CONE ! LOST ! 


53 


The girl disappeared within the cabin and soon re- 
turned, with her head and shoulders wrapped up in a 
gay plaid shawl, and a lighted glass-lantern in each 
hand. 

“ Give one to this gentleman and keep the other your- 
self, and come on,” said Mr. Simpkins. 

And the two men and the young woman, each with a 
lantern in hand, left the cabins and commenced the 
search. 

They searched the corn-field through and through. 

“ For,” said the landlord, “ it is just possible that the 
lady may have lost herself in this field, or fainted here, 
or something.” 

But no trace of the missing girl was found in the 
field. 

“ Now to search the orchard,” said Simpkins, as he 
led the way thither. 

It was a longer job to go through every part of the 
apple and peach orchard. The three searchers scattered 
and carefully investigated every square yard of the dark 
and deeply-shaded place. 

But no sign of the lost girl could be found. 

“ It only now remains to look through the garden,” 
concluded Mr. Simpkins, as he opened the gate leading 
from the orchard thither. 

The garden, crowded with shrubs, bushes, vines and 
so forth was almost as dark as the orchard, and required 
a closer investigation. 

Again I:he three searchers separated and went through 
every portion of the ground. 

But still no trace of the lost one could be found. 

“ Well, marse, I reckon I might well take my lights 
back to de quarters. See dere ain’t no lady hereabouts,” 
suggested Peggy. 

“ Wait ! There ’s a forlorn hope yet. The men in 


54 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


the stables ! We will inquire of them !” exclaimed the 
landlord, unwilling to give up the search, as he led the 
way to the stables where the post-horses were kept. 

“ The tired creetur’s sleep so sound it will be hard to 
wake ’em, I reckon,” said the master, as he knocked 
loudly and roared out his summons at the stable-doors. 

“ Who dar ? What de debbil you making all dat noise 
about ?” demanded a rude voice from within, accom- 
panied by a chorus of barking dogs. 

“ Lalfy-yet !” cried the master, for that was the way 
in which he pronounced the great French patriot’s 
much-abused name — “ Laffy-yet, come out ! I want to 
speak to you !” 

“ Oh, it ’s you, Marse Tom, is it ? What de matter, 
sar ? Is it horse- thieves or fire ?” asked a tall, gaunt, 
white-headed negro, as he made his appearance at a 
square hole that did duty as a window. 

“ Neither. Come out. I want to speak to you.” 

Bars fell ringing to the ground, bolts shot harshly 
back from their grooves, rusty locks turned, and the 
broad stable doors swung wide open, and a dozen or 
more dogs dashed out, barking “ full defiance, scorn and 
hate ” to all strangers in general, and the supposed 
thieves and burglars there present in particular ; but 
when they recognized their master, they began to whine 
and fawn and apologize in the most affectionate and 
abject manner. 

“ Be quiet, Fido ! Lie down. Trusty ! Off me, all of 
you ! Your friendship is just as troublesome as your 
enmity !” exclaimed the landlord, laying his stick well 
over the backs of his canine guards. 

“ Now, then, Laffy-yet, there was a lady accidentally 
left behind by that blundering stage-driver, and she 
cannot be found. Have you seen anything of her ?” in- 
quired the master, as soon as quiet was restored. 


GONE ! LOST ! 


55 


“ Lady left behind ? No, indeed, marster. I done 
see no lady. Dere was a yallow hair trunk left behind, 
dough. I seen dat, and took it inter de stable, if you ’d 
like to see it.” 

“ Drot the yellow trunk ? I am talking about a lady !” 
impatiently exelaimed the master. 

“ I ain’t seen no lady, sar, myself. I kin ’quire of de 
boys in de stable, dough,” said the Marquis de Lafa- 
yette’s namesake. 

“ Do so at once,” said Mr. Simpkins. 

The old negro withdrew into the stable. 

After an absence of ten minutes he returned and 
reported : 

“ None ob de boys ain’t seen nuffin ob no lady, sar ; 
nuffin but de ole yallow hair trunk.” 

“ Blast the old yellow hair trunk ! Call in the dogs 
and shut up the stable ! You ’re all a parcel of stupid 
donkeys together !” exclaimed the master, angrily, and 
most unjustly, as he turned away from the stable. 

“ Can I go back to the quarters now, marse ? I ’s 
awful sleepy, ’most ready to drop right down dead wid 
sleep,” said Peggy, yawning. 

“Yes, go back to the quarters, or the Old Nick either, 
and be blamed to you ! Stupid fools ! Not to be able 
to find one young lady in such a place as this !” ex- 
claimed Simpkins. 

“ Why, lors, Marse Tom, ef de young lady ain’t here, 
how can us find her ?” naturally enough retorted the 
girl. 

“ None of your impudence ! Go along off to your 
quarters !” exclaimed the master, working himself up 
into a fury, because he had not succeeded in finding the 
missing girl. 

Colonel Fitzgerald said not a word. He had accom- 
panied the searchers and assisted in the search in almost 


56 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


perfect silence. His anxiety had now risen to alarm, 
intense and inexpressible. 

“ I don’t see, sir, that anything more can be done to- 
night,” said the landlord, as they retraced their steps 
toward the house. “ You will have to take a bed with 
us, sir, and resume your search by daylight to-morrow 
morning.” 

“ No,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, firmly, “ I cannot re- 
tire and give up the search to-night, leaving the fate of 
my wife in uncertainty, leaving herself unsheltered, un- 
protected, wandering about in a strange neighborhood 
at midnight, exposed to — unutterable dangers ! I 
cannot !” 

“ But what the mischief can you do, sir ?” inquired the 
host. 

“ I must go into the forest surrounding this place and 
search and call. I may not find her, most probably I 
shall not, but I must spend the night in looking for her, 
if necessary. I will take your lantern, if you will be so 
kind as to lend it to me.” 

“ Are you determined to go, sir ?” 

“ Fully.” 

“ Of course, then, you must have the lantern. But 
come in and have a drink before you start out on that 
wild-goose chase.” 

“ Thanks. I never drink. But do not let me keep 
you out in the night air,” said the colonel, who was im- 
patient to be off on his unpromising expedition. 

“ Hold on, sir ! Don’t be in such a hurry. I have 
just thought of something. If you ’re bound to go on 
this hunt to-night—” 

‘‘ I am ‘ bound to go ’ on it — ” 

“ Then I think I can put you in the way of success, if 
success is possible. Come into the house a minute.” 

Colonel Fitzgerald hesitated. 


GONE ! LOST 


57 


“ I won’t detain you five minutes,” said Simpkins. 

“Very well ; go in ; I will follow you. And if you 
can put me in the way of tracing my wife, I shall be 
eternally obliged to you. I feel convinced that she has 
lost her way in the forest,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ I think myself that it is the likeliest thing in the 
world that she has^ and if she has, we shall find her in 
an hour from this,” said the landlord, confidently, as he 
led the way into the house, entered the reading-room, 
and placed a chair for his guest. 

“ Heaven grant that we may do so !” exclaimed Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald, as he sank into the seat, drew his hand- 
kerchief, and wiped the moisture from his brow. 

“ I am sure of it, sir !” said Simpkins. 

“ What is your plan ?” anxiously inquired the colonel. 

“ I will show it to you,” replied the landlord, dropping 
into his chair to breathe, himself. “ Have you got any- 
thing that belonged to the lady ?” 

“ Two travelling-bags,” answered the colonel, point- 
ing to them as they lay on the floor. 

“ I don’t mean anything like them. I mean something 
that she has worn or carried about her person.” 

“Yes, there is her little straw hat, and there is her 
pocket-handkerchief.” 

“ They will do. Now, I will tell you what. We will 
take a certain dog that I have in my possession, carry it 
to the spot where the stage-coach stood, when she must 
have left it, show it the handkerchief and hat, let it get 
a good sniff at them to get the scent, then set it on the 
trail, and it will run her down in an hour.” 

“ What, hunt a lady with a hound ! A hound that 
would terrify her to death even if he did not tear her to 
pieces !” indignantly exclaimed Gerald Fitzgerald. 

“ Bless you, no, sir ! I ’m not talking about hounds ! 
I ’m talking about my wife’s little Skye- terrier, Nelly, 


58 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 

who has a nose as keen as a sleuth-hound, with a tem- 
per as gentle as a lamb’s. Nelly would not frighten a 
baby, I assure you, sir.” 

“ I beg your pardon ! And very gratefully I accept 
your offer. By all means let us try Nelly’s powers,” 
said the colonel, as he went and gathered up the hat 
and the handkerchief belonging to Gertrude. 

At this moment the landlady and her daughter reen- 
tered the reading-room. 

“ So you ’ve come back ! Is the lady found ?” inquired 
Mrs. Simpkins, while Becky and Sally looked on with 
wondering eyes. 

“ No, Nancy, the lady is not found. Where is your 
little dog, Nelly?” 

“ Asleep on the foot of my bed, where she always is. 
Why do you ask ?” 

‘‘ Because I want her. Go fetch her, that ’s a good 
woman. We are going to try to put her on the lady’s 
trail, to see if she can find her,” said the landlord. 

“You bet, she ’ll find her if she is to be found,” ex- 
claimed the landlady, hurrying out of the room, followed 
by her daughters. In a few minutes she returned, bear- 
ing in her arms the little brown, curly-haired Skye- 
terrier, which she set down upon the floor. 

“ Come, Nelly,” said the master, as he went to the 
door, where Colonel Fitzgerald impatiently awaited him. 

The little dog bustled up eag^ly, and ran after her 
master. The two men walked to the spot where the 
stage-coach had stood when Gertrude must have left it. 

“ Now, let me have that hat and handkerchief . She ’ll 
smell ’em, and then she ’ll scent out the very spot on 
which the lady alighted, and so she will trace her to 
where she is now,” said the landlord, as he took the hat 
and the handkerchief from Colonel Fitzgerald and held 
them to the little dog’s nose, saying : 


GONE ! LOST ! 


59 


“ Seek, Nelly !, • Seek !” 

The little creature looked up intelligently, wagged 
her tail and went smelling all over the spot, until in a 
few moments she gave a yelp of delight. 

She had struck the trail, and slowly and carefully she 
followed it, the two men walking a short distance be- 
hind her. 

Keeping her nose close to the ground, Nelly went up 
the turnpike a litttle way in the direction from which 
the stage had come. Then, after snuffing about for a 
few moments, still keeping her nose to the ground, she 
struck into a by-path, and went toward the belt of woods. 

“ I felt sure she would go there,” said Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, as he followed. 

“ I feel sure that she will go on the right track,” 
added the landlord, confidently, as he hastened his foot- 
steps, for little Nelly was now trotting along very 
briskly. 

They followed her closely, and presently entered 
thick woods by a narrow, grass-grown path, along which 
Nelly was scenting .industriously. 

After a walk of a quarter of a mile into the forest, 
they entered a small, green glade through which ran a 
little rill of clear water. 

Here Nelly stopped and nosed around in a circle, and 
then looked up utterly baffled. 

Good dog ! Seek ! Seek !” cried the landlord. 

But Nelly wagged and looked up in helpless distress. 

“ Put her across the stream ; she may recover the trail 
there,” suggested Colonel Fitzgerald. 

The landlord took her up and threw her gently across 
the water, encouraging her with cries of : 

“ Good dog ! Good dog ! Seek ! Seek !” 

But Nelly only wagged her tail and looked up in dis- 
tress. 


60 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Colonel Fitzgerald sprang across the water and began 
to examine the ground. Presently he exclaimed : 

“ There are traces of wheels here. This is an old 
road.” 

“ Aye, so it is,” said the landlord. “ It is the old char- 
coal-burner’s road. But it has been out of use so many 
years I had forgotten all about it.” 

At this moment, Nelly, who had been nosing indus- 
triously about among the dry leaves on the ground, 
gave a joyful bark and bounded forward with something 
in her mouth, which she brought and laid at her mas- 
ter’s feet. 

Mr. vSimpkins picked it up, looked at it, and with a 
significant glance, handed it to Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ It is my wife’s glove,” exclaimed the latter. 

But now the behavior of Nelly again attracted atten- 
tion. She was nosing about in the most agitated man- 
ner and suddenly, wagging her tail, she trotted off 
down the old road, keeping her nose close to the ground. 

“ Come along, colonel ! She has recovered the trail,” 
cried Simpkins. 


CHAPTER V. 

Gertrude’s warning. 

I conjure you by that which you profess, 

How e’er you came to know it, answer me. 

— Shakespeare. 

. Let me gaze for a moment, that ere I die 

I may read thee, lady, a prophecy. — Davidson. 

When Gerald Fitzgerald had left Gertrude sitting 
alone on the back seat of the coach, she supposed her- 
self to be its only occupant ; but she was quickly unde- 
ceived ; for no sooner had his footsteps died away than 


Gertrude’s warning. 


61 


a feeble voice, from the darkest shadows of the opposite 
end, spoke to her : 

“Young lady — ” 

“Yes,” said Gertrude, kindly, thinking that this voice 
must come from the black-cloaked woman whom they 
had found to be the only occupant of the coach when 
they entered it at Wilde ville and whose presence she 
had forgotten as soon as the shadows of night concealed 
her from sight. 

“ Have you a smelling-bottle about you ?” 

Gertrude took her eau de Cologne from her bag and 
handed it to her fellow-traveller, saying : 

“ Only this.” 

“ This will do,” answered the woman in a weak tone, 
adding : “ Oh, I ’m so faint ! I ’m so faint !” 

“ Are you sick ? Can I do anything for you ?” 'kindly 
inquired Gertrude. 

“No, I am not sick. You can’t do anything for me. 
But, oh, I am so deadly faint — so deadly faint !” sighed 
the woman. 

“ Do let me call some of the men, then, to bring you a 
glass of wine from the house,” persisted Gertrude, as 
she left her seat in the darkness and climbed over the 
intervening cushioned benches until she reached the 
stranger. “ Let me call one of the men ?” she repeated, 
taking the woman’s hand. 

“ The men are all in the stable, child ; not one of them 
within sound of your voice. But, oh, I am so faint — so 
deadly, deadly faint !” moaned the woman, dropping her 
head upon Gertrude’s shoulder. 

“ Oh, I am so sorry ! What can I do for you ? Let 
me run to the house myself, then, and bring you a glass 
of wine,” pleaded Gertrude, as she rubbed the hands of 
the woman in her own, to restore what she believed to 
be impeded circulation. “ Do you wish anything V 


62 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“No, no ; I don’t want anything. But, oh, I am so 
deathly, deathly faint !” gasped the woman, leaning 
more heavily upon the girl. 

“ Ah, good Heaven, what can be done ?” exclaimed 
Gertrude, becoming alarmed for her fellow-traveller. 

“ I — I don’t know. I think, maybe, if I could get out 
and walk a little in the fresh air,” sighed the stranger. 

“ Do you think you are able to do so ? Shall I help 
you ?” inquired Gertrude. 

“ I — ^yes — I think I cOuld get out— and walk — if you 
would help me. It is — this close coach — and — my 
cramped position — makes me so faint,” sighed the wom- 
an, as resting her hands on Gertrude’s shoulders, she 
raised herself from her seat. 

“ There, hold on to the strap until I can open the door 
and get out to help you down,” said Gertrude, as she felt 
about in the darkness. 

“ Not that door — not the (^oor next the house — the 
other one next the wood,” p’anted the woman. 

Gertrude felt her way to the other side of the coach 
and opened the door next the wood. She then got out 
and carefully held her hand to her strange fellow-pas- 
senger, saying : 

“ Be very cautious ; you are very weak, you know ; 
don’t fall.” 

The stranger gave her hand to Gertrude and de- 
scended from the coach with great care, and so stood 
safe upon the ground, saying : 

“ Thank you, young woman ; you have, maybe, saved 
me from a swoon. But I give you so much trouble !” 

“ Not the least. It is a real pleasure to help you, if I 
can,” said Gertrude. “ Now, take my arm. Do not be 
afraid to lean heavily on me, for I am very strong.” 

“ Thank y’, honey ; but I am twice as big and heavy 
as you are.” 


Gertrude's warnin^x 03 

You are much taller, certainly, but never mind that ; 
lean on me, as heavily as you need to do. And now let 
us walk. We must not go many yards away from the 
coach, however, for fear we might keep them waiting,” 
said Gertrude. 

“ Oh, this air feels so good ! Already I am better. 
Let us walk to that pine-wood. The odor of the pines 
always does me good,” said the stranger, with a deep 
sigh of relief. 

“ But the wood is too distant. We must not go so 
far from the coach.” 

“ Only a few yards. We shall get back in good time. 
Let me get one whiff of the pine-wood’s breath ; it is 
the breath of life to me.” 

Gertrude looked toward the house. There seemed no 
sign of movement toward the coach from that direction. 
Besides, just then she heard a voice from some distance 
loudly call : 

“ What the deuce are they waiting for ?” 

And another voice shouted back the answer : 

“ They are waiting for the boy with the mail-bag 
from Upperton. He ’s behind time, little rascal ! Gone 
coon hunting, like as not.” 

“ There,” said the woman. “ Don’t you hear ? They 
are waiting for the Upperton mail, which this coach 
must take. It may not be here for half an hour. The 
boy rides a wretched old nag and may ha’ broken down. 
Come along, let us go to the pine- wood.” 

Gertrude looked again toward the house but saw no 
sign of movement yet. 

“ What are ye afeard of ?” inquired the stranger. 

“Why of keeping them waiting, or of being left 
behind,” answered the girl. 

“ Why, don’t you know, they blow the horn to warn 
folks before they start, and even if we were in the 


64 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


woods we could hear it, and hurry back in time to save 
them from waiting,” said the stranger. 

“ Oh, yes. So we could. I had forgotten about the 
horn. Come along, then, ma’am. I will take you to 
the woods. You are much better already, are you 
not ?” 

“ Oh, yes, much stronger, thanky’, honey, ! Every 
breath of this good fresh air revives me ; and I know a 
whiff of the pine wood’s odor will set me up entirely,” 
said the stranger. 

“ Lean well on me, however. Y ou must not fatigue 
yourself,” kindly counseled Gertrude, as she drew the 
woman’s hand farther through her own arm, and sought 
to give her all the support she could, as she led her 
across the turnpike-road and on toward the pine-woods. 

They entered the wood. 

It was, indeed, the border of the old primeval forest. 
The trees were of gigantic height and enormous size. 
Their lofty trunks rose like the pillars of some great 
cathedral, and their branches, intermingling at a vast 
height overhead, formed arches like the tops of grand 
Gothic windows. There was neither path nor under- 
growth, and the unbroken ground was covered with 
thick grass, strewn here and there with a few fallen 
leaves and pine cones. 

“ This is the very sublimity of a forest !” exclaimed 
Gertrude, with enthusiasm. 

“ Ay, it is. The niggers call it ‘ the big woods,’ ” re- 
marked the woman, seating herself at the foot of one of 
the mighty trees. 

“ You live about here, perhaps ?” said the young girl. 

“ I live everywhere,” answered the strange woman. 

“You are always travelling, then ?” said Gertrude, 
wondering whether her chance companion were a 
peddler. 


Gertrude's warning. 


65 


^‘Always," answered the stranger. “But sit down 
here by me. The ground is quite dry.” 

Gertrude complied with her request. 

At that moment the warning horn of the stage-coach 
was heard in a loud, shrill blast that rang through the 
forest. 

“ They call us ! We must go !” exclaimed Gertrude, 
starting up. 

But at that same instant an arm, strong as a giant’s, 
was thrown around her, holding her down in a grasp 
close as a fetter, and the voice of the woman, no longer 
feeble, but strong and resonant, answered : 

“ You shall not go !” 

“ How dare you ? How dare you ? You have de- 
ceived me ! You were not sick, not faint ! What do 
you mean ? Let me go this instant !” cried Gertrude, 
amazed, indignant, terrified beyond expression, as she 
struggled violently to free herself. 

The woman answered nothing, but held her in a 
grip tight as a vice. The stage horn blew a long, long- 
resounding blast. 

“Help! Help I Help !” screamed Gertrude, with all 
the strength of her lungs. 

“Ha-ha-ha! They’ll never hear that, at this dis- 
tance,” laughed the woman. 

“I know you now. You are Magdala. Oh, let me 
go ! You would not keep me from my husband !” pleaded 
Gertrude, still struggling hard to free herself, and 
nearly maddened by the sound of the summoning horn 
that still rang through the forest. But she might as 
well have tried to break a cable chain of iron as to 
burst the clasp of this strong Amazon’s arms. 

She ceased to struggle, but continued to plead : 

“ Ah, Magdala, you will not keep me from my hus- 
band, you will not !” 


66 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Will I not? I will keep yon from Gerald Fitz- 
gerald, as I would keep you from a fire !” fiercely ex- 
claimed Magdala, 

“Why should you?” cried Gertrude, recommencing 
her violent effort to free herself — “ why, in the name of 
Heaven, should you wish to keep me from Colonel Fitz- 
gerald? But why should I ask? Of course, she is 
crazy and can give no reason for her actions,” added 
the girl, in an undertone. 

The last long blast of the horn rang, reverberating 
through the forest. 

“ Oh, that horn ! How can you hear it and hold me 
fast ! Let me go ! Let me go, I say ! Help ! Help ! 
Help ! Gerald ! Gerald ! Oh, Gerald, help !” screamed 
Gertrude, at the top of her voice. 

“ Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! You make me laugh ! Why, the 
sound of that horn would drown twenty voices like that ! 
And even if the horn was not blowing they couldn’t be 
heard at this distance !” chuckled the woman. 

“ How dare you hold me here !” cried Gertrude, 
renewing her struggles with frantic violence. “ How 
dare you keep me from my husband ?” 

“ Because you belong to me ! Because you are mine ! 
Because I will not let that handsome vampire have you 
to suck your heart’s blood !” fiercely exclaimed Mag- 
dala. 

“ Heaven have mercy on me ! I am in the grasp of a 
raving maniac !” exclaimed Gertrude, as her struggling 
muscles suddenly relaxed from their violent strain. 

She had not fainted — that strong, healthy girl, brave 
as she was tender, had never fainted in all her life. It 
was the reaction from extreme tension that left her 
unnerved for a few moments. 

Taking advantage of her condition, the Amazon lifted 
her with powerful arms, and walked rapidly away into 


Gertrude’s warning. 


67 


the depths of the forest. The sound of the stage-coach 
horn was no longer heard. 

Magdala hurried on with the strength and persistence 
of madness, until she came to a little stream of water. 
With insane contempt of comfort, and regardless of 
wetting her garments, she waded through the stream to 
the other side, walked about a hundred yards and sat 
down with her captive. 

Are you frightened ?” whispered the woman, as she 
gathered the girl close to her bosom and held her 
fast. 

“No, I am not so much frightened as pained,” an- 
swered Gertrude. 

“ Yet the stage-coach has gone.” 

“ I know it. I heard the wheels roll away about the 
time the horn stopped blowing, soon after we left the 
foot of the tree. I suppose we must have passed near 
the high road.” 

“We did ; but we are far enough from the high road 
now. Are you frightened ?” 

“ I tell you no — but pained, revolted.” 

“ Yes, the stage-coach has gone, and Fitzgerald has 
gone with it to the city and left you here.” 

“ I do not believe that.” 

“You heard the stage go yourself.” 

“Yes, but Colonel Fitzgerald did not go with it. 
When he came out to the stage and found that I was 
not there, he set about looking for me. He will be sure 
to find me. No, I am not frightened.” 

“ 1 tell you, Fitzgerald entered the stage-coach and 
went off with it. You call me mad ; but I have a power 
that sane people lack. I can see things not to be seen 
by other eyes ! I can know what is going on at a dis- 
tance and what will go on in the future ! I saw Gerald 
Fitzgerald get intQ the stage-coach -with a tumhler gf 


68 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Spiced wine in his hand. I saw how carefully he carried 
it, for fear he should spill it.” 

“ Well, he carried the wine for me, and when he 
found I was not there, he left the coach, of course. You 
must have seen that as well,” said Gertrude, smiling, in 
spite of the difficulty of her position. 

“No, I saw not that. The vision faded them But 
look, you !” exclaimed the woman, fiercely, while her 
dark eyes shone in the night, like the eyes of a panther. 
“ Look you, Gertrude Fitzgerald ! Y ou are Fitzgerald, 
and you were Fitzgerald, long before you ever saw the 
face of Gerald Fitzgerald — look you ! Before that hand- 
some man shall have you — Oh ! He may leave fhe 
coach ; he may hunt you and find you ! But before he 
shall take you, I, myself, I — will slay you with my 
hand and send you to join your mother in the world of 
light ! Aye ! Even if in doing so I condemn my own 
soul to the pit of darkness !” 

“ Heaven of heavens !” muttered Gertrude, quailing. 

“ Do you know how I see you, with that man ? I 
told you I could see the future. I can ! I see you by 
that man’s side, paling, fading, withering, unloved, de- 
serted, even dishonored ! I would rather see you dead, 
Gertrude, even if there were no after life !” 

“ In the name of Heaven I ask you : What am I to 
you, that you should take this strange, dangerous, fatal 
interest in my life ?” demanded the girl. 

“ She asks me what she is to me,” muttered the woman 
to herself. 

“ Yes ! I ask you what I am to you that you should 
treat me in the way you do ?” 

“You are all to me! My only hope of redemption, 
of forgiveness, of restoration !” 

“You speak in riddles. But, oh, of course, I know 
you are mad 1” added Gertrude, in a low tone. But 


Gertrude’s warning. 


69 


what have you, even in madness, against a gentleman 
so pure and noble as Gerald Fitzgerald ?” 

“ ‘ So pure and noble ’ as Gerald Fitzgerald ! Do 
you really love this man, then ?” sneeringly inquired 
the woman. 

Gertrude paused, trembled and then loyally answered : 

‘‘ I love Fitzgerald so much that even were your dark 
prophecy obliged to be fulfilled, only to be near him I 
would rather wither in his hand than bloom on the 
bosom of a king.” 

The strange woman dashed Gertrude off her breast 
and sprang to her feet with a fierce gesture. 

“ This is Godless idolatry !” she exclaimed. “ This is 
not love, but Godless idolatry! You call me mad? 
Why, you yourself are a million times madder than I ! 
Where are you going ?” she suddenly demanded, spring- 
ing upon Gertrude, who was running away. 

I was going to try to find my way back to the post- 
house. You had better let me go and make your own 
escape. You will get yourself into trouble by detaining 
me, you know,” said Gertrude. 

“ You could not find your way back to the post-house 
to save your life. We are in a pathless forest, two miles 
from the post-house, and the night is dark as pitch. 
You must remain with me.” 

You will get yourself into trouble by detaining me, 
I tell you.” 

I am not afraid of anything that man or devil can 
do to me. All I fear is what he will do to you.” 

“ You yourself are doing me more harm now than 
any other human being ever did, or ever could. The 
only palliation of your deed lies in your madness. I 
wonder if you are sane enough to tell me what you 
think of doing next,” said Gertrude, gravely. 

“ I shall keep you here until morning ; but I will not 


70 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


take my arm from around your waist again all night, 
for you are not to be trusted ; you would try to run 
away again.” 

“ What ! Sit out in the open air all night at this season 
of the year ?” 

“ Why not ? It is dry and cool, but not cold, in this 
wooded vale between two mountains. A healthy girl 
like you will take no harm.” 

“ But yourself ?” 

“ I ? I live in the open air. The mountains, woods 
and fields are the chambers of my habitation. How 
else could I have gained more powerful strength than 
most of your housed and pampered men possess ? You 
have tried that^ for you are no babe in weakness your- 
self,” said the woman, significantly. 

“ No, my muscles have been trained at the oar,” an- 
swered Gertrude, who comforted herself with the 
thought that if the madwoman intended to hold her 
there all night, her husband would certainly find her 
before morning ; so that her curiosity was keener than 
her fear, as she inquired of her captor : “ When the 

night shall be over, what shall you do ?” 

“ Eat breakfast,” said the woman, producing a wallet 
that hung to a belt around her waist. 

Gertrude laughed at this literal, practical and most 
unexpected reply. 

“You are not frightened, you ?” exclaimed Magdala. 

“ No, not the least in the world now. I am only dis- 
turbed at the inconvenience to which your reckless act 
will have put Colonel Fitzgerald. But even that is not 
serious ; for we were not in any desperate hurry to reach 
Washington. Now, may I ask you if you mean to eat, 
drink and sleep in the woods ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And live in former ?” 


Gertrude’s warning. 


71 


“ No.” 

“What then ?” 

“We will live in the woods until wind and rain, ice 
and snow, drive us into the deep caves of which these 
mountains are full ; then we will live there. Ah, life is 
fine here in the forest among the winged creatures of 
the air and the four-footed ones of the earth !” 

Gertrude did not answer the maniac ; she was won- 
dering how long it would take her husband to follow 
her, trace her out and find her. 

At this moment the leaves crackled near her, and 
something rushed forward, jumped heavily into her lap, 
and began to caress her as if she had been a dear friend 
instead of a total stranger, and then suddenly jumped 
off again and bounded away, barking joyously. 

It was the little brown Scotch terrier, the herald of 
her deliverers. 

Magdala clasped Gertrude closely in her iron arms 
and sprang to her feet, gazing wildly around, as if un- 
certain whither to fly without falling into the hands of 
her pursuers, whose heavy tread was even now heard 
crunching through the dry fallen leaves. At the next 
instant, two stalwart men were upon her — the one on 
the right, the other on the left. 

“ Oh, thank Heaven, you have come at last, Gerald ! 
Don’t let any one hurt the woman. She is mad, you 
know !” exclaimed Gertrude, who had now ceased to 
struggle. 

“ Release that lady instantly !” exclaimed the stern 
voice of Gerald Fitzgerald. 

“ Yes ; I will release her ! I will release her ! Oh, 
yes, I will release her, fast enough ! Stand back, both 
of you, for a moment !” exclaimed Magdala. 

And, as the men withdrew a little, she, still holding 
her captive closely clasped in her left arm, put her right 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


n 

hand into her bosom, drew forth a small dagger, 
and — 

Before she could strike it into Gertrude’s heart, her 
hand was seized by Gerald Fitzgerald, who had never 
taken his eyes from her, and the deadly weapon was 
wrenched from her grasp, and hurled into the distant 
stream of water. 

“ Take her then !” cried Magdala, wildly, “ Take her 
since I cannot keep her from you, and cannot even re- 
lease her by death ! Take her !” 

Gerald received the half-fainting girl in his arms and 
sat down with her on the root of a fallen tree, and be- 
gan to speak to her in soothing and encouraging words. 
But the fierce voice of Magdala drowned his tender ut- 
terances. 

“ Take her !” screamed the maniac. “ Take her ! I 
give her to you ! But to give her to you is not to release 
her, but to give her to a captivity worse than death — a 
captivity of soul and spirit as well as of body ! But 
look you. Colonel Fitzgerald ! You know well the power 
I possess over you ! You will kill my child most likely, 
by a more painful and protracted death than I could 
have inflicted on her ; you will wear out her heart. But 
look you, I shall watch you both ! And if, under your 
baleful breath, that pale face should grow one shade 
paler, your secret — the secret that killed your father, the 
secret that would hurl you down to ruin and disgrace, 
shall be proclaimed from the house-tops, shall be given 
to the four winds of heaven ! You are well warned !” 

“ Oh, Magdala, be silent !” cried Gertrude, by whom 
all this denunciation of her idol was heard as blasphemy 
and felt as torture. 

“ Do not mind her, love, she raves,” said Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, soothingly. 

“ Rave, do I ?” screamed the woman — (and at that 


Gertrude’s warning. 


73 


moment, Mr. Simpkins turned the bull’s-eye of his lan- 
tern full upon her, lighting up her wild, dark face, burn- 
ing black eyes and streaming black hair) — “ rave, do I ? 
Listen to me, Gertrude Fitzgerald ! Yes, Gertrude 
Fitzgerald, long before that man ever cast the ‘evil eye’ 
upon you, or dreamed of giving you a name that was 
your own already, listen, and I will give you a talisman, 
by which to test your false god ! Ask Gerald Fitzgerald 
what that fell secret was that slew his father in his bed. 
Ask him how, and why, he was kept in Washington on 
his wedding-day ; and why he never could explain the 
mystery to his forsaken bride. Ask him that, and see 
how he will answer you !” exclaimed the woman, with a 
triumphant flash of her wild, black eyes. 

“ Be sure that I shall ask my husband no such ques- 
tions. I shall always respect and honor him too much 
for that,” said Gertrude, as she still sat by Gerald’s side 
on the root of the fallen tree. 

“ Poor child ! And you call me a mad woman, not 
knowing your own state. But listen to me further. He 
— this strange god of yours, will break your heart and 
drive you to despair some day. You will And yourself 
alone, friendless, homeless, hopeless. Then, when you 
do, you will remember this conversation. Then go away 
by yourself ; withdraw your mind from all visible 
things ; fix it on me ; call me, not aloud, but mentally ; 
call me once, then wait a few seconds. If you feel no 
response, call me in -the same way three times, and wait 
a little longer. If again you feel no answer, call me five 
times and wait five seconds. Still, if you feel no effect, 
call me seven times, very slowly. By that time you will 
surely feel my answer, and I will hurry to you, even 
from the uttermost parts of the earth. And he, he will 
call upon the mountains to fall upon him and cover his 
shame !’* cried the wild woman, lifting her hands above 


74 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


her head, turning and striking into the depths of the 
forest. 

“ Colonel Fitzgerald, I am a constable. Hadn’t I bet- 
ter run after that woman and take her iip ?” inquired 
Simpkins, after he had recovered the breath that had 
been suspended in amazement at the woman’s conduct. 

“ No, let her go. She is mad,” answered Gerald Fitz- 
gerald, as he arose and gave his hand to Gertrude to 
help her on her feet. 

“ But, sir, I think it is my duty. Gracious goodness, 
she drew a dagger on the lady, and would have struck 
it into her bosom but for your timely spring ! Heaven 
and earth ! Assault and battery with intent to kill in 
my very presence. In the presence of a county con- 
stable ! Whoever heard tell of such a thing ! Sir, it is 
my duty to arrest her, and yours to prosecute her !” ex- 
claimed Simpkins, swelling with importance. 

“ The woman is mad, Mr. Simpkins. She cannot be 
held responsible for anything she does or says,” said the 
colonel, as he drew Gertrude’s arm within his own, 
preparatory to taking her from the forest. 

‘‘Well, then, sir, if she is mad, she ought to be shut 
up, for she is a very dangerous mad woman. And it is 
my duty, sir, my duty as a constable of the county to 
take her up,” persisted Simpkins. 

“ Then you should have done your duty sooner, my 
good friend, for the woman has fled into the depths of 
the forest, and your little dog, having completed what 
he considered his part in this performance, has probably 
run home to his mistress, for I do not see him anywhere 
about.” 

“ That ’s true. I suppose I must give it up for to- 
night ; but to-morrow I will take care to look madam 
up — yes, and lock her up, too !” exclaimed Simpkins. 

“ Shall we return to the house now ? My wife needs 


Gertrude’s warning. 


75 


rest, and we shall have to claim your hospitalit)^ for the 
night. Shall we go on ?” inquired Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Certainly, certainly, sir. And I hope the women 
will have had sense enough to get some hot supper 
ready for the lady, though, bless my soul alive, it will 
''be more like breakfast, for it must be long after mid- 
night now ! Yes ; two o’clock, if you will believe me, 
sir !” exclaimed the landlord, consulting his big silver 
"timepiece. 

“ I never was out of my bed at such an unholy hour 
in all the fifty years of my life ! Not that I begrudge 
it, neither, so long as we have found the lady,” he added, 
with a polite bow. 

“We both thank you very much, Mr. Simpkins. And 
now if you will be so good as to take the lantern and go 
on before, we will follow,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“Yes, but how are you going to get back across the 
creek ? You can’t leap back as you leaped forward — 
not with the lady, you can’t !” 

“No, I shall carry her across.” 

“ What, and wade ? The water is knee-deep.” 

“ That is nothing. I have been in deeper water and 
deeper difficulties, too. Go on, Mr. Simpkins,” said Ger- 
ald Fitzgerald, as he lifted Gertrude in his arms and 
prepared to cross. 

“ You will get so wet, Gerald,” expostulated Gertrude. 

“Yes, you will, sir ! If anybody is to wade, you had 
better let me do it, sir. I have heavy bull-hide boots 
drawn up over my trousers, and I could take the lady 
across comfortably without wetting my skin,” said the 
landlord. 

“ Yes, Gerald. Please let Mr. Simpkins carry me 
over, since he will be so good,” added Gertrude. 

“ Thanks, very much, Mr. Simpkins, but I think I 
prefer to carry this little lady over myself,” said Colonel 


76 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Fitzgerald, courteously. Then pressing Gertrude closer 
to his breast, he bent his head and whispered : 

“ My brave little girl, did you not get a wetting and 
risk a killing, to bring me over the ferry, some few 
weeks ago ? Do you think I would not do half as 
much for you ? Besides, do you think I will let any 
other arms than mine hold you so closely ?” 

She smiled with delight and nestled even nearer to 
his bosom, just as a loving and guileless child might 
have done. 

“ Go on with the lantern, Mr. Simpkins, if you please,” 
said the colonel. 

“ Just so, sir, since you say it,” answered the landlord, 
as he walked down to the water’s edge, took a step 
backward to gain momentum, and took a flying leap 
across the creek. 

He landed safely on the other side, but his lantern 
swaying violently in his hand, put the candle out, and 
left them in total darkness. 

Simpkins fumbled in his pockets for matches, found 
one, and relighted his candle just in time to see Colonel 
Fitzgerald wade into the water. 

In a few minutes the colonel also, with his pretty bur- 
den, was safe on this side. 


GERTRUDE S OVATION. 


77 


- CHAPTER VI. 

Gertrude’s ovation. 

She gives thee all — she can no more — 

Though poor the offering be, 

Her heart, her heart is all the store 
That she can bring to thee. — Anon. 

“ And now the sooner we get to the house the better, 
sir, for you are soaking wet up to your knees, I know,” 
observed Mr. Simpkins. 

“ Do you feel able to walk the distance, my dear 
Gertrude ? It is over two miles,” inquired the colonel. 

“ Oh, yes, quite able to walk that or twice the dis- 
tance,” replied Gertrude. 

“ Lead the way with your lantern, then, Mr. Simp- 
kins,” said Gerald Fitzgerald, as he drew Gertrude’s 
arm within his own. 

The landlord walked on before, keeping the narrow 
path in retracing their steps through the forest. Ger- 
ald Fitzgerald and Gertrude followed, at a distance of a 
few feet, behind. 

This enabled them to converse confidentially, while 
keeping the light of the lantern carried by Simpkins 
well in sight. 

“ Now tell me, Gertrude, how it happened that you 
left the stage-coach, after declaring to me that you were 
unwilling to do it ?” inquired Colonel Fitzgerald.' 

“You are not displeased or angry with me, Gerald?” 
inquired Gertrude, in a low voice. 

“ Of course, I am displeased, Gertrude. How could I 
be otherwise ? But not angry with you, child. Tell me 
all about it,” answered the husband, gravely. 

The young wife sighed, almost imperceptibly, and an- 


n 


THE REjECtEt) BRIDE. 


swered by giving a short, simple, but perfectly clear ac- 
count of the deception practiced upon her judgment and 
the appeal made to her sympathies by the pretended in- 
valid. 

Her husband heard her in silence, and when she had 
cohcluded, he said : 

“ If my little Gertrude has any faults or weaknesses, 
they lie in her excessive tenderness and trustfulness. 
Let this be a grave warning to you, my child, to be more 
guarded in your conduct. Your honor and your life 
were both endangered to-night.” 

“ I will be more guarded, Gerald. I know my life was 
endangered ; but my honor ^ Gerald ?” she inquired, with 
a look of amazement. 

“ Yes, Gertrude. The forest is the haunt of runaway 
negroes and other desperate characters. No young 
woman could be safe in passing through it, unprotected, 
even by day, much less so by night.” 

“ But I was protected from everybody but herself — 
by Magdala.” 

“ Magdala is a woman of tremendous muscular power, 
quite able to manage you as easily as you could manage 
a canary-bird, but she could not have withstood the 
strength and frenzy of a stalwart negro. Let us talk no 
more of this, Gertrude. I spoke only to warn you.” 

“ I am warned, dear Gerald. I will be more cautious 
from this day forth. But you ? Did you miss me as 
soon as you got back to the coach ?” 

“No, dear, I was the only remaining passenger in the 
inside of the coach. It was pitch-dark. The horses 
started just as I dropped into my seat, and went off at a 
very great speed to make up for lost time, while I was 
groping about in the shadows for you, supposing that 
you had your position and fallen asleep ; and they had 
taken the coach half a mile from the post-house, before 


Gertrude’s ovation. 


79 


I had discovered your absence, and succeeded in making 
the stage-driver hear me and stop the coach.” 

“ Oh, Gerald ! And you must have had so much trouble 
to find me ! But I knew you would find me. I knew you 
would, because you would never stop until you did. Tell 
me all about the trouble you had, dear Gerald.” 

“ What ? Fight my battles all over again, little girl ? 
Well, I will, since you wish it,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, 
good-humoredly, and he commenced and told Gertrude 
about his dismay at missing her, his return to the post- 
house, the search of the premises, the subsequent search 
of the back-yard, the garden, shrubbery, orchard, vine- 
yard and negroes’ quarters, the disappointment, the re- 
turn to the house, and finally of the forlorn hope, in 
which the little Scotch terrier, Nelly, was conscripted to 
act the part of a detective to discover the missing lady 
— a duty which she so successfully accomplished. 

“ Behold all !” said Fitzgerald, smiling. 

“ I will never give you so much inconvenience again 
as long as I live, Gerald,” said Gertrude, earnestly. 

“ That is a long promise, little girl,” he answered, as 
he took the hand that lay upon his and pressed it ten- 
derly. 

“ That poor mad woman, Gerald ! Has she no friends, 
no home ?” inquired Gertrude. 

She has a friend in every Christian in the county 
and a home in every house as long as she will be con- 
tented to stay. You heard the charges she made against 
me, Gertrude ?” inquired Fitzgerald. 

Oh, yes ; but she is mad, you know, and you will 
forgive her, Gerald.” 

“ You did not suspect those charges had any founda- 
tion in truth, did you, Gertrude ?” 

“ I ?” she exclaimed, stopping short, and gazing up 
into his face, as if she could have seen it in the deep 


80 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 


darkness, for the bull’s eye of Simpkins’s lantern, carried 
a few feet in advance, shone only on the path before 
them ; but her tone was more expressive than a dozen 
protestations could have been. 

“ No, Gertrude, you do not believe that there was any 
foundation for the charges she made against me, and 
yet, my child, there was'" 

Again she stopped short, and looked up into his 
shadowed face in amazement. 

“ Yes, Gertrude, there is a secret connected with our 
family, the hearing of which gave my father his death- 
blow. I do not know what that secret was, for my un- 
happy father died in the bitter struggle to reveal it to 
me — died before he had even communicated the nature 
of that secret to me,” said Fitzgerald, gravely and sor- 
rowfully. 

“ But, dear Gerald, though that secret may concern 
your family, and through them, affect you, yet you are 
in no way responsible for it, whatever it may be,” said 
Gertrude, earnestly. 

“ No ; but there is another secret cast up to me by 
that mad woman to-night — the secret of the circum- 
stances which detained me in Washington on the ap- 
pointed wedding-day, when I was bound in honor to 
present myself at the Summit Manor House. The 
secret, of course, I do know, yet I dare not reveal. 
What do you think of that, Gertrude ?” he asked, once 
more taking her hand in his, as it lay upon his 
arm. 

She paused a few moments and then, speaking clearly, 
answered : 

‘‘ I do not know what I think about your secret, dear 
Gerald ; but this I know — that if it were right to reveal 
that secret you would reveal it ; and should it be revealed 
the revelation could only reflect honor upon you, since 


81 


Gertrude's ovation. 

all you do is honorable, and in harmony with that fine 
old legend of your house that I love so well ; 

“ ^ The Geraldines, the Geraldines, 

’Tis full a thousand years 
Since ’mid the Tuscan vineyards 
Bright flashed their battle spears ! 

But never, then, nor thence, nor now. 

Has falsehood or disgrace 
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald’s plume, 

Or mantle in his face !’ ” 

• Gertrude quoted these lines in a low, fervent voice, 
and he felt the electric touch that thrilled her sensitive 
form as she spoke. 

“ Little enthusiast !” he said, in a grave and tender 
tone. I wish I were fully worthy of that old name 
and fame, for then, perhaps, I might be half worthy of 
your love and faith.” 

As he spoke they were nearing the post-house. 

The dogs in the stable-yard to the right of the build- 
ing opened their throats in a chorus of barks that were, 
with some difficulty, subdued even by the voice of their 
master. 

They entered the house, and found Mrs. Simpkins 
and Becky and Sally waiting up for them in the parlor. 
Intense curiosity had kept them out of their beds up to 
this hour. They received the returning party with great 
excitement, expressed on all their faces, but only mani- 
fested in speech by the elder woman, who exclaimed : 

‘‘ Well, indeed, and have you got back at last ? The 
dog has been home an hour. Did she lead you to the 
lady, or did you find her yourselves ? And is that the 
lady there ? And where did you come across her at 
last ? And what made her go off so far ?” 

“ Goodness gracious me alive ! Margaret, stop and 
take breath ! I can’t keep the run of all your questions, 
much less answer them ! These travellers want some 


82 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


supper. Have you got any for them ?” demanded the 
landlord. 

“ Y es, to be sure. I knew, whether you found the 
lady or not, you would want something to eat when you 
got back — you and the gentleman, too. Men always 
want to eat, on all occasions, and at all hours, whether 
it is a wedding, or a funeral, or an auction, or a trial, 
day or night ! Would you like to go to a bed-room 
first, and lay off your things, ma’am ?” she said, sud- 
denly, turning to her lady-guest. 

“ If you please,” said Gertrude. 

‘‘Come, then,” said the landlady, leading the way 
from the parlor across the front passage to a large, 
clean, plainly-furnished chamber on the same floor. 

Gertrude laid off her woolen hood and heavy shawl 
and then went to the plain pine-wood wash-stand and 
bathed her face and hands. 

Afterward, when she was brushing her hair before 
the white-draped dressing-table, the landlady attempted 
to interview her on her mysterious disappearance. 

“ I reckon you are a young, inexperienced traveller, 
honey, or you never would ’a’ run the risk of leaving the 
coach by yourself and walking off so far ! It ’s a mercy 
you wa’ n’t lost altogether, and didn’t come across some 
of them runaway niggers. Whatever could ’a’ put it in 
your head to go so far in the night, honey ?” 

Now almost any other woman under similar circum- 
stances would have resented the question of the land- 
lady as impertinent curiosity ; but not so our meek 
Gertrude. She answered frankly by telling the inquisi- 
tive hostess all the particulars of her adventure with 
the mad woman, in which she herself alone was con- 
cerned. She felt neither free nor willing to speak of 
Magdala’s bitter hatred and extravagant accusations of 
Gerald Fitzgerald. 


GERTRUDES OVATION. 


8 :^ 

‘‘V/ell, honey, you must be more careful another 
time, that ’s all I can tell you ; for this here adventur’ 
of yours might have cost you your life, or worse ! And 
it ’s my firm belief that you owe your deliverance from 
danger and death to my little dog, Nelly,” said the host- 
ess, emphatically. 

“Bless little Nelly!” exclaimed Gertrude. “I wish 
there were some way of rewarding a little dog, besides 
the poor one of giving her something to eat.” 

“ Would you like to have little Nelly for your own 
little dog, honey ?” 

“ Oh, indeed I should.” 

“Well, then, you can have her and welcome.” 

“ Oh, thank you so much ! But I would not like to 
take her away from you, and, besides, she would be 
home-sick.” 

“ Oh, as to taking her away from me, I have more 
dogs, little and big, than I know what to do with ; and 
as to her being home-sick, Nelly is only six months old, 
and will soon forget us and take to you.” 

“ Then I will take her and love her ; and, oh, I thank 
you so much 1 But will you let me give you something 
— not for her^ you understand ; she is your free gift — 
but something of mine that you may remember me by. 
See here — will you please to wear this for my sake ?” 
said Gertrude, detaching a pearl brooch from her 
bosom and fastening it on the blue ribbon bow that 
adorned the landlady’s neck. 

“ Well, I declare ! That is handsome ! My girls will 
both want to take it away from me, but they sha’ n’t 
have it — that is certain. Thank y’, honey, i will keep 
it as long as ever I live !” exclaimed the delighted land- 
lady, rapturously kissing the donor. “ Come now, 
honey. I reckon supper ’s on the table, and men are 
that impatient ! Ah, you ’ve got to learn that yet, 


84 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


honey. You ’re a young bride, and a young bride is like 
a young bear, with all her troubles afore her,” con- 
cluded the landlady as she led the way back to the par- 
lor, where, sure enough, the landlord, for one man, was 
fretting and fuming at the delay. 

The whole party went into the dining-room, where a 
comfortable repast was served. 

Immediately after supper, our travellers retired to 
rest. 

And so ended the strange, adventurous wedding-day 
of Gerald Fitzgerald and Gertrude H addon. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 

Few men find what they love, or could have loved, 
Though chance, blind accident and the strong 
Necessity of loving have removed 
Antipathies, to recur, ere long. 

Envenomed with irrevocable wrong. — Byron. 

Sunrise found our travellers seated at breakfast, in the 
great bare dining-room of the mountain post-house. Y et 
the place was quaint and attractive. 

It was a spacious apartment, occupying the whole 
south wing of the little hostelry. 

Its four unshaded windows looked east and west, out 
upon a scene as glorious as ever inspired the gorgeous 
pencil of Titian or Correggio — upon the two forest-cov- 
ered mountain ranges that enclosed this narrow valley, 
and that were now glowing in all the rich crimson, 
golden, purple, orange, evergreen and scarlet hues of 
autumn, under the splendor of the newly-risen cloudless 
sun. 


THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 


85 


On the north side of the rooms a fine fire of hickory 
logs was blazing in the broad fire-place. On the east 
side of the fire-place, as you stood facing it, was an old- 
fashioned cupboard with glass fronts ; on the west side 
was a door leading into the other parts of the house. 

The bare south wall of the room was relieved only by 
a rude wooden settee with a high back. 

A moderate-sized square table sat in the middle of the 
floor. It was covered with a clean, coarse white cloth 
of home manufacture, and furnished with common delft 
crockery ware, plated spoons, and buck-handled cutlery ; 
but it was laden with such luxuries of the farm, the 
mountain and the forest, as would have been considered 
rare dainties on the breakfast-tables of the best hotels 
in the cities. The pure, rich milk and cream, the fresh, 
sweet butter, the honey, the partridges, the venison and 
so forth were here served in such perfection as could 
only be found in such neighborhoods, remote from 
towns and markets. 

According to the custom of the country, at inns of 
that neighborhood and time, the host and his household 
sat down at table with his guests. 

There were no guests this morning, however, except 
our travellers. 

. The landlady sat at the head of the table, with her 
broad back to the fire, to pour out coffee and tea. The 
landlord sat at the foot, to serve the hot venison steaks. 
On the right side sat Gerald and Gertrude. Opposite 
them Becky and Sally Simpkins, the two daughters of 
the house. 

“ Shot this buck myself, colonel, not three days ago, 
and not a hundred yards from our garden wall, if you 
will believe me,” exclaimed the landlord, in proud satis- 
faction, as he placed a choice cutlet on a hot plate and 
passed it up to Colonel Fitzgerald. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 




“ Indeed ! Do the deer venture so near human habi- 
tations ?” inquired the colonel, as he placed the plate be- 
fore his wife. 

“ Ah, that they do so, now and again ! Fine sport here 
at this time, sir. Better make up your mind and stop 
with us. a while to take a few cracks at the game,” said 
the landlord, heartily, as he served his guest with an- 
other hot cutlet. 

“ Hardly excitement enough in this sport, if the deer 
walk up to your garden wall to be shot. I should call 
that butchery, not sport,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, 
laughing. 

“ Oh, sir, that only happens now and again ; not often, 
by any means ; which I only mentioned it at all to prove 
how plentiful game was here this season,” explained the 
landlord, as he busied himself with helping his wife and 
daughters to venison cutlets. 

“Yes, sir,” said the landlady, chiming in to the con- 
versation, “it is only once in a great while that a fine 
buck strays down within gunshot of the place ; and if it 
was only a deer I wouldn’t care how many came, no, 
nor how often ; because they are useful meat as a 
change ; not as good as pork and bacon, or mutton, or 
beef, I mean, but just a good sort o’ change. So I 
don’t object to the deer intruding ; but when it comes 
to the wild mountain varmints, prowling around the 
house at night, that I do object to.” 

“ Do they come near you ?” inquired Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, courteously. 

“ Ah ! I believe you, sir ! What would you think 
now of a catamount coming down the mountain-side, 
climbing over our wall and carrying off one of my 
finest goslings, in broad daylight, right before my two 
looking eyes ?” 

“ Oh ! They used to do that at the ferry,” put in Ger- 


THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 


87 


trude. “ At the ferry our back yard went almost up to 
the foot of Wild Cat Cliffs (called so from the great 
numbers of those creatures infesting the mountains). I 
have heard our old servant say that many a time, when 
she has happened to go out in the back yard at night, 
she has seen what appeared to be twin stars oji the top 
of the fence ; but they always dropped down behind the 
fence, and their disappearance was attended with a fast 
rattling, by which she knew that a wildcat had been 
prowling there after chickens. But grandfather after- 
ward kept dogs in the back yard, and after that the 
wildcats were never seen.” 

As she finished her little speech, she happened to 
look up at her husband, when she saw dissatisfaction 
and annoyance expressed in every lineament of his 
dark, handsome face. He was looking down upon his 
plate and drumming absently with his fork. 

“ Ah, what have I done or said wrong now ?” she 
mentally inquired, as her eyes sought to meet those 
whose warm or cold glance seemed almost as life or 
death to her. 

Gerald Fitzgerald never raised his eyes from his 
plate, but moodily resumed his knife and fork and went 
on silently with his breakfast. 

Gertrude spoke no more, but communed sorrowfully 
with her own heart, reviewing carefully all her words 
to try to find out in which she had offended. 

“ Oh, I was only talking of the wildcats and the — 
ferry ! Ah, I wonder — I wonder, if it is the ferry he 
does not like to hear about ? It must be. I will never 
mention my dear old home again in his presence. No, 
it cannot be that. I do him wrong. He is too truly 
noble ever to feel annoyed at the mention of my old 
life. Oh, I wish— I wish I could be more worthy of 
him,” she sighed. 


88 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Whatever it was that had displeased Gerald Fitz- 
gerald, as soon as he happened to turn around and 
notice the little penitent and troubled face, his con- 
science smote him, and he said, with even more than 
usual gentleness : 

“ Gertrude, my child, you are taking nothing. Do let 
me see you eat. We shall have a long ride before din- 
ner time.” 

She started softly and looked up at him, with, oh, 
such a look of relief and love and trust in those meek 
brown eyes ! 

Try one of these peertridges, honey,” said the land- 
lady. “ Maybe you don’t take to wen'sin. Some ladies 
don’t. Put a peertridge on her plate, Simpkins,” said 
the landlady. 

“ No, no ; thanks. I like this best,” said Gertrude, 
drawing away her plate in comic dismay at the threat 
of overloading it with a whole partridge. 

And after that, she, being a young and healthy girl, 
finished her meal to the satisfaction of her entertainers. 

“ I wish,” thought Gerald Fitzgerald, “ I had more 
self-control, or that gentle girl had less sensitiveness. 
I know I wounded her when I looked so much discon- 
certed by her allusion to the ferry. I must try to keep 
a better guard over my face. Poor Gertrude ! Poor 
child ! Because I know that she loves me and has given 
her young life unconditionally to me, and because I 
cannot love her, for all this, I must be all the more pa- 
tient, gentle and forbearing with her. Yes, I must, and 
I will ! Who but a brute could willfully wound so ten- 
der a heart as hers ?” 

As they arose from the table. Colonel Fitzgerald had 
a question to ask : 

“ What time does the first stage-coach from Wilde- 
ville arrive here ?” 


THE HAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 


89 


The coach that left Wildeville at five o’clock this 
morning will reach here at twelve, stop half an hour 
for dinner, and then go on with fresh horses,” answered 
Mr. Simpkins. 

“ Then, as it is now only eight o’clock, we will have 
four hours on our hands. How would you like to em- 
ploy them, Gertrude ?” inquired Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ I do not mind. In any way you please,” she mur- 
mured in reply, lifting her eyes to his to discover, if 
possible, the bent of his inclinations. 

“ Then, as we shall have to sit in the stage-coach from 
half-past twelve o’clock until about nine to-night, when 
it stops at Blackville for supper, suppose we make the 
best use of our opportunity and take a walk through the 
forest,” suggested Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Yes, that will be delightful !” eagerly exclaimed 
Gertrude, her brown eyes radiant with happiness at the 
idea of taking a tite-h-tHe stroll with Gerald through 
the forest. 

“ Get your hat and shawl, then, child, and we will go,” 
he said. 

She left his side and went into the bedroom to put 
on her hat before the glass. While she was adjusting 
it, her wedding-ring, which was too large for her, 
slipped off her finger and rolled upon the floor. She 
picked it up, pressed it to her lips, and then looked at it. 

This was not the first occasion on which the ring had 
slipped from her finger, for it fitted loosely ; but it was 
the first opportunity she had had to examine it. It was 
a thick and heavy ring of what is called guinea gold. 
Within its circle was an inscription, a monogram — 
“ G. G. F.” 

She gazed at the initials fondly, smiling to herself, as 
she murmured : 

“ G. G. F.— Gerald and Gertrude Fitzgerald. How 


90 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


did he manage to have this ring engraved on so short a 
notice ?” 

As she asked herself this question, the smile died 
from her eyes, and her face grew a shade paler. 

“ It was made for Geraldine," she murmured to her- 
self — “ for Geraldine ! G. G. F. stands for Gerald and 
Geraldine Fitzgerald. Oh, if after all, he should 
regret her ! If, after all, I should have marred his 
happiness, instead of making it, what a most miserable 
girl I should be !’* 

She gazed upon the monogram on the ring, falling 
into a sad reverie, forgetting to tie her hat, until at 
length a cheerful voice at the door aroused her : 

“ Come, Gertrude, my little girl, are you ready ?" 

“ Yes, Gerald," she exclaimed, brightly, quite re- 
assured by the tones of his voice, at once so gay and so 
kind ; “ I am quite ready, Gerald," and she hastily tied 
her hat, put on her shawl, and taking her gloves in her 
hand, she joined him in the passage. 

But, instead of starting then for their walk, he stood 
still and looked at her. 

I am quite ready, Gerald," she said again. 

“ I think not, dear. Put on your gloves. Ladies do 
not go out with bare hands," he said, and immediately 
repented saying it, as he saw her delicate cheek flush. 

I meant to put them on as we walked along. I did 
not wish to keep you waiting, Gerald," she answered. 

“ But ladies do not Apish their toilets while walking 
abroad," he said, because having entered upon the sub- 
ject, he had to end it. 

“ Oh, Gerald, I am not a lady. I wish I were, for your 
sake," she answered gently, while the color deepened 
on her soft cheeks, and a mist dimmed the light of her 
dark eyes. 

Instantly the better angel of the man rebuked him. 


THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 91 

“ You are a lady, Gertrude, in all the essentials that 
go to make a true lady. It is I who lack some qualities 
of a true gentleman, I fear. I beg your pardon, dear 
Gertrude.” 

“ Oh, please, please never do that ! Please never hesi- 
tate to point out a mistake to me, Gerald ; for, though 
I may feel pain in having made one, I shall soon feel 
pleasure in rectifying it,” she said, smiling brightly up 
in his face. 

“ And, oh, what a fuss to make about a little pair of 
gloves, and such little wee gloves, too !” he laughingly 
exclaimed. “ Let me button them for you, Ger- 
trude.” 

She held her hands up, smilingly, and he fastened her 
gloves with more good will than grace. 

They walked out together, taking the direction toward 
the forest, in the rear of the post-house — the fordst of 
oaks, elms, ash, chestnut and other giants among trees 
that filled the valley and climbed the mountain ranges 
on each side. 

“ Thq scenery is considered fine here, Gertrude ; but 
it is not near so fine as that of Haddon’s Ferry. Indeed, 
I, who have been something of a traveller, have never 
beheld scenery anywhere that combined in itself so 
much picturesque beauty with such savage and stu- 
pendous sublimity as is seen in the passage of Wilde 
River through the Alleghany Mountains,” said Colonel 
Fitzgerald, as they walked on. 

Of course, I have never seen any place in this world 
finer than Haddon’s Ferry ; but then I have never been 
out of my native State,” answered Gertrude. 

“ Tell me, now, about your life at H addon’s Ferry, my 
little girl,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, with the latent mo- 
tives of atoning for having invpluutaril^ wounded her 
fp^lings at the tablp, 


92 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Do you really wish to hear about it, Gerald ?” she 
inquired. 

“ Indeed I do, my child. All that concerns you in- 
terests me. Tell me about your excellent grandfather, 
Gabriel H addon, of whom every one speaks so highly.” 

“ Yes,” said Gertrude, softly, “of him it may truly be 
said that — 

“ ^ None knew him but to love him, 

None named him but to praise.’ ” 

“You are rather fond of quoting poetry, my little girl ; 
but don’t do it — no one does it now ; it is old-fashioned 
and quaint,” said Fitzgerald, good-humoredly. 

“Thanks, Gerald, for telling me. If you continue to 
teach me so kindly, I shall soon learn to please you. 
But, oh, what quaint and old-fashioned folks were my 
dear old grandfather and I, for we were frequently 
quoting poetry to each other. And in the long winter 
evenings we used to spend together by the ferry-house 
fireside, when the river was frozen over and the boats 
were laid up for the season, and we had little to do, we 
used to tell stories and read ballads to each other. Oh, 
let me tell you all about those evenings, they were so 
pleasant !” she exclaimed eagerly, looking up into his face. 

“ Certainly, that is just what I want to hear,” said 
Fitzgerald, pressing the little, eager, tremulous hand 
that lay on his arm. 

“ Well, we used to keep very old-fashioned hours, too, 
my grandfather and I. We had breakfast at sunrise, 
dinner at noon and supper at sunset. I always got 
through my household work by ten o’clock and then I 
studied my lessons until dinner time. After dinner, 
grandfather would hear my lessons, and then I sewed 
or knit until tea time. After tea I used to sit by the 
window and watch the glow — the sunset glow fade off 
the river and mountain and sky, while grandfather 


THE HAY after the WEDDING. 


93 


smoked his pipe. Then came the evening. I used to 
say, ‘ Grand, may I call Jessie in now with the candles ?’ 
He would nod and put away his pipe. And when the 
candles were lighted and set on the mantelpiece, grand- 
father would set a row of large apples down on the 
hearth before the fire, to roast slowly. We — grand- 
father and I — would draw in our chairs to, the hearth. 
Aunt J essie would take her wool cards and sit down in 
the corner to get the good of what was going on, while 
she carded her wool, for she said ; ‘ One is never too old 
to learn.’ That was the only proverb I ever heard 
Aunt Jess quote correctly. She always used to quote 
her folk-lore hind-part foremost. When told of it she 
used to say it was because she was born in the month of 
June, under the sign of the crab, which always went 
backward,” said Gertrude, laughing. 

“ I have heard worse explanations than that for 
eccentricity. But what did you do to improve Aunt 
Jessie’s mind after you were all drawn in to the fire?” 

“ Oh, sometimes I read from some story-book lent me 
by Miss vSue Greenleaf. If I had no book, I would knit, 
while grandfather told stories or recited ballads ! Oh, 
such strange, quaint productions, some of which he told 
me had never been printed, but had been handed 
down from century to century in cotters’ families, 
and which had furnished the winter evening entertain- 
ment in humble homes long before the cheap literature 
which has now displaced them, had been thought of. 
Oh, I used to like them so much. They seemed to 
carry us back into the early twilight of time, these 
quaint ballads. 

^ Old legends of the monkish page. 

Traditions of the saint and sage, 

Tales that had the rime of age 
And character of eld.’ 


94 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ There ! I have quoted again, but indeed I did not 
mean to do so,” said Gertrude, apologetically. 

“ Never mind, dear ! Never mind ! Quote as much 
as you please to me^ but not in mixed company. Now 
go on with your winter evenings at the ferry.” 

“ So we would read or recite until about ten o’clock. 
Then the apples being well roasted would be taken up, 
and Jess would bring in a kettle of hot water from the 
kitchen, and I would get down a brown stone pitcher 
and a bottle of apple-brandy and sugar and spice from 
the closet, and grandfather would make some hot apple- 
toddy, and we all had a glass apiece before we went to 
bed. There was no harm in it,” said Gertrude, sud- 
denly. “ Grandfather needed it because he was old and 
chilly, and he could never enjoy anj^thing nice unless 
we all had some too, share and share alike. Besides, 
there was very little apple-brandy in it — it was mostly 
mashed roast apples and sugar and spice and hot water. 
You know there was no harm in that, Gerald,” repeated 
Gertrude, pleadingly. 

“ I don’t know anything of the sort,” replied Colonel 
Fitzgerald, with mock gravity. “ I think that you were 
all a horribly dissipated and disreputable set at the ferry, 
drinking and carousing, singing songs and telling sto- 
ries, night after night.” 

“Ah ! There, now. I know you are joking, Gerald.” 

“ Well, how did these orgies end each night ?” 

“We went to bed about ten o’clock. This was our 
holiday time, Gerald — the winter season, I mean. In the 
summer we all had to work hard enough to make up for 
it ; especially in J uly and August, when there would be 
so many strangers from the cities, either visiting on the 
plantations or else boarding in the villages. Oh, then, 
grandfather, John Brooks and I would be plying the 
Q^rs Qx the poles day long, Soipetitnes at night my 


THE HAY AFTER THE WEHHING. 95 

arms ached so, that I could not sleep. Oh, yes,” said 
Gertrude, with a little pleased look , “ during the sum- 
mer-time we earned our winter’s leisure.” 

, Colonel Fitzgerald winced. 

“ Was it inclination or necessity that kept you bound 
to the oars all day long, Gertrude ?” he asked. 

“It was both,” she answered frankly. “You see 
grandfather and John Brooks had to work the great flat- 
boat to bring over carriages, horses, drays, servants, any 
cattle or any heavy freight. And I had to row the little 
boat to bring over single passengers or small parties of 
ladies and gentlemen ; and I used to take a great deal 
of pleasure in it. Was I wrong ?” 

“No no, no, child ; you were right. But you know 
so little of this sarcastic world. Gertrude !” 

“Yes, Gerald.” 

“ How old are you ?” 

“ Fifteen and a half, Gerald.” 

“ A mere child — too young, too young, too young to 
be married !” he sighed. 

She heard him, and her little face fell ; but after a 
short pause, she said : 

“ Yes, Gerald ; but you know in six months I shall be 
sixteen, and in a year after I shall be seventeen. I shall 
soon grow old, dear Gerald.” 

. “ Now, Heaven forbid !” exclaimed Gerald Fitzgerald, 
with a burst of irrepressible laughter, provoked even 
out of his gravity by her quaint apology. “ No, Ger- 
trude ; I hope to make you so happy that you will not 
grow old for half a century yet. But, little girl, you are 
so young, so childlike, so inexperienced, with, however, 
so much time yet left you for improvement, that I think 
I must take you to France and place you in a first-class 
school for two or three years. You are now a lovely 
little girl, Gertrude, but I wish to see you in time a 


96 


tH£ REJECTED RRIDE. 


beautiful, cultivated and accomplished woman. What 
do you think about this, Gertrude ?” he inquired, caress- 
ing the little hand that lay on his arm. 

Her face, lately so bright with happiness, had grown 
very grave ; her fresh, elastic voice fell a note or two, 
as she answered : 

“ I feared that I was too ignorant to do you any credit, 
Gerald ; but, then, I thought you knew best.” 

“You are not ignorant, Gertrude; you are a better 
linguist than most men — not to say most ladies ; but 
your training has been that of a boy rather than that of 
a girl. Now, I think that two or three years in a first- 
class French or English school would be of the greatest 
benefit to you and would make of you a very brilliant 
woman. What do you think yourself, little girl ? Speak 
to me frankly now,” he said, pressing the little hand he 
held within his own. 

She tried to answer him, but her voice faltered. She 
paused, recovered, and then, with a half -suppressed sob, 
she exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Gerald, please — please do not send me away from 
you — so far, and for so long a time ! Oh, please, don’t 
send me away from you at all^ Gerald ! I will study 
anything you wish ! I will study night and day to learn 
everything I ought to know. I am not dull, Gerald. I 
know I could make myself worthy of you, so that you 
should never be ashamed of me in any company. Only, 
don’t send me from you, Gerald — let me stay with you !” 

She clasped her little tremulous fingers and raised her 
misty eyes, pleadingly to his face. 

“ Very well, then, my child, we will say no more 
about it. Certainly you shall not leave me, if you do 
not wish to do so,” he answered gravely, and there was 
a note of disappointment in his tone, which, however, 
she did not perceive. 


IT IS MY WIFE’S GEOVE!” EXCLAIMED COLONEL FITZGERALD.— .Vec Chapter IV 








iri 3 lt.a 3 xf 3 vcj; r^sj^j^ azC 

-^« 3 o:.f ikin t-qil J^ii Kji f: bt^a'dOjq b^ L..j A • 

.39miJ V n. 

;;^><:gxiiy/ii'rf> ,bka sd *\oIj-jrjio\) ^ v jcr ^o'moD •■ 

.5>dj oj fTTf/lst oi 'zt Si '* m-js' zid 

■ .. - . : ■■ " “’■ ' : ?;4^sixc 

XiiA"^ 0 ..'^Dnodr 3 toa'i'ioq nl b^ijdvRW :^orrr 

i>nii fujJdoriod^ *bis3 biXG S'? Bt^^ xi. to»i,^abrri 

- ' • ■ .?i/oix: 

J> 3 'iu;pn£ vlbxihJ ' ' j^Iisv/ 4 njB 2 a 9 l<j av/>H 

' ^ ■ . .saj.rorl 3iii x^iil ic ,LL 7a-;^:;;n heroic 

03 'apw loujrjiin dorf ji/d .,sbii'xi7aO f.- 
; mo«ii oi.z/hq ‘xhdi o? aoGo Jz T.cd b^i . - 

; tpimpai ad ^locb ar!? 'w Lr 

./fsT ^uox^ dii^/r r ''*' 


,cfo2 oMlpasiqs’ni e^hhi z d^tw -L ' 

rf^isia^t Jfidi ci o’^ oJ oixr j.iX‘- j *:>7 . ^ "■ i 
. . . ' l— b-- 

=:• 08 biiinr tj/cT/' ba’ga^rtc r/o’^; ' 

v' 1 7i>d •cn:ibTr,7i^c:^7 d*-r.> . 

'\Dvnd I.,Idxiia = . : 

* ■ ''Uood-*8 o,to'§ 0^^ ajfif bfij*: vV :■••'. ; " ■ 

’’i'dai 3y.i>oI " 

7.: r,v~i ro'd 

'\v'imzooen ocf b-uada ar, ^ndil 
ni Sd-:^hida band aif.n tlo’^ dn. J ~(b/:i 
bfi-^n&do liov svBd vdW : '{I:jt? mid ^ 

o^ oS woa dahi noyob '^dw bax .c^ ff -ax -.i-t 


-eiswaxi? . ‘£11} i-'.id oi lahaiift , 


THE HAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 97 

She could not speak the joy she felt in his reply, but 
she took his hand and pressed it to her lips and bosom 
many times. 

“ Come, now, Gertrude,” he said, drawing- her hand 
over his arm again, “it is time to return to the 
house.” 

They walked back in almost perfect silence, Gerald 
looking both grave and sad, Gertrude thoughtful and 
anxious. 

“ Have you had a pleasant walk ?” kindly inquired 
Colonel Fitzgerald, as they entered the house. 

“ Yes,” answered Gertrude, but her manner was so 
abstracted that he led her at once to their private room ; 
and when he had shut the door, he inquired : 

“What is the matter with you, child? Tell me 
truly.” 

“ Gerald,” she began, with a little irrepressible sob, 
“ I know you want me to go to that foreign school, and 
— and — I also would like to go.” 

“ What ! Have you changed your mind so sud- 
denly ?” he asked, regarding her attentively. 

“ Yes, Gerald, I have.” 

“ And you would really like to go to school ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What, and leave me ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ For two or three years ?” 

“ For as long as should be necessary.” 

“ Now, little lady, look your husband straight in the 
eyes and answer him truly : Why have you changed 
your mind so suddenly, and why do you wish now to go 
to school ?” 

She lifted her trustful eyes to his and answered 
truly : 

“ Because I know how much you wish me to be culti- 


98 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


vated and accomplished. I saw how grave and troubled 
you looked after I had objeeted to going to school.” 

“ And for this reason you want to go ?” 

“Yes, Gerald ; and because, although it will be very 
hard for me to leave you, it would be harder still to 
stay with you against your will. Besides, what am I 
that I should set up my judgment against your judg- 
ment ? I will go, Gerald.” 

“ I thought so,” he gravely replied, drawing her to 
his bosom and pressing his lips to hers. “ I thought so, 
my little dove. Now, listen to me. I have given up 
that plan of sending you away from me. I could not do 
it now. You thought I looked ‘ grave and troubled ’ as 
I walked home. Child, I was oceupied with thoughts 
of you and of what I could best do to secure to you intel- 
lectual culture and domestic happiness at the same 
time. Now, I have solved the problem, Gertrude. We 
will go abroad for a few years. I will procure teachers 
for you, who shall attend you in your own house. Thus 
you will not be separated from me.” 

“ Oh, Gerald, that would make me very, very happy ; 
and I would improve every opportunity of culture you 
afforded me,” she said, with all the earnestness of her 
earnest nature. 

At this moment they heard the shrill, prolonged blast 
of the coming stage-horn, from the turnpike road, fol- 
lowed by the ringing of the first dinner-bell in the 
house. 

“The coach is half full of men and women,” said 
Gerald Fitzgerald as he watched its approach from the 
front window of their chamber. “ I think, dear, we 
will not dine with all these people. Here is a con- 
venient table. Shall we have our dinner sent in here ?” 

“Yes, Gerald, if you please.” 

Colonel Fitzgerald rang a little hand-bell that sat 


THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 


99 


Upon the table and which was promptly answered by 
the appearance of the only waiter of which the little 
hostelry boasted. 

I wish to have dinner for myself and this lady served 
in here,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Yes, marster, sartainly,” replied the obliging darkey, 
bowing himself out. 

He soon returned and laid the cloth and served the 
dinner, remarking as he went out : 

Only half an hour left, marster, to eat dinner, settle 
up and start off.” 

“ All that can be accomplished in much less time, on 
a journey,” said Gerald Fitzgerald, as he led Gertrude 
to the table and seated himself. 

Meanwhile the heavy, lumbering stage-coach had 
rolled into the yard, pulled up and discharged its pas- 
sengers, who stretched their cramped limbs and hurried 
into the house. 

As soon as Gerald and Gertrude had finished their 
dinner the former stepped out to the office, where he 
settled his bill, and asked for a porter to take Ger- 
trude’s light luggage to the coach. 

Then he went back for his young wife, whom he 
found with her hat and gloves on, ready for their 
journey. 

“ Take up these two bags and that little dog and fol- 
low us,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he drew Gertrude’s 
arm within his own and led her out to the coach. 

The fresh horses had already been put to it, but none 
of the passengers had as yet taken their seats. 

The porter stowed away the bags in the interior of 
the coach, and held the little Scotch terrier until Nelly’s 
mistress should have taken a seat and got ready to re- 
ceive her. 

Gerald handed Gertrude into the coach, where she 


100 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


was about to take the back seat, when the guard touched 
his hat, and said : 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, but the three places on the 
back seat are all taken by a party from Wilde ville, who 
are going all the way to Washington.” 

“ A party from Wildeville ? Who are they, I wonder ? 
Never mind. What seats are disengaged ?” 

“ The middle seats are, sir.” 

‘‘ Very well. I take the three places on the middle 
seat. We will have to sit with our backs to the party 
from Wildeville, my dear, who are probably village 
shop-keepers going to the city to buy their winter’s 
stock of goods,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he seated 
Gertrude on the middle cushion and put her little dog 
in her lap. 

“ This is at least a very easy seat, and it is much bet- 
ter than riding backward,” said Gertrude. 

Colonel Fitzgerald placed himself by her side and de- 
posited her two bags on the vacant seat on his other 
hand. 

The porter and the guard withdrew from the doors of 
the stage-coach, and our pair of travellers found them- 
selves for a few moments alone. 

‘‘ Gerald,” said Gertrude, “ are you sure that Nelly 
does not annoy you in any way ?” 

“ Of course, why should she ? Little Gertrude, you 
must not trouble your soul so much aboiit what may or 
may not annoy me. You have a right to your happi- 
ness, my child.” 

“ Yes ; but my happiness is in pleasing you, only in 
pleasing you. Oh, believe me, indeed it is, Gerald,” she 
said, with pathetic earnestness. 

“ Bless you, my dear little girl, I hope you may not 
find it a thankless mission,” sighed Gerald Fitzgerald. 

At this moment the coachman got up on his box and 


THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 


101 


put the end of the tin trumpet between his lips, and 
blew a shrill, prolonged blast, to warn all passengers to 
come on board. 

A little crowd was seen to leave the post-house and 
hurry toward the coach. First came two young men, 
easily recognizable as the grocer and druggist from 
Wildeville. 

“ There, I knew it ! Mr. Pepper and Doctor Sage go- 
ing to town to buy goods,’’ observed Colonel Fitzgerald, 
smiling. 

Yes ; but who are those behind them — a tall, slender 
lady in black, with a vail over her face, an old woman 
and a priest ?” inquired Gertrude. 

Colonel Fitzgerald, who had drawn in his head, now 
looked out again, and suddenly fell back in his seat, ex- 
claiming : 

“ Great Heaven !” 

‘‘ Who is it, Gerald ? What is the matter ?” inquired 
Gertrude. 

But before he could answer her question, even if he 
had intended to answer it, the two storekeepers from 
Wildeville, who were both acquaintances of Colonel 
Fitzgerald and his youthful bride, came up to the coach, 
smiling pleasantly, and climbed into their places on the 
front seat, directly facing our travellers, whom they 
greeted cordially. 

Gerald Fitzgerald returned their salutation with a 
grave bow, and Gertrude, with a smile ofwelcome and 
a slight bend of her head. 

By that time the other passengers had reached the 
Stage-coach door, and were preparing to climb into it. 


102 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A TRYING RENCOUNTER, 

They seemed to those who saw them meet, 

The kindly friends of every day, 

Her smile was still serene and sweet, 

His courtesy was free and gay ; . 

Yet if by one the other’s name, 

In some unguarded hour was heard. 

The heart you thought so cold and tame. 

Would flutter, like a captive bird. 

— Monckton Milnes, 

The black- vailed lady entered the stage-coach, handed 
in by the long-coated priest. 

Gerald Fitzgerald, who had recovered his self-control, 
coolly removed Gertrude’s travelling-bags from the 
vacant middle seat beside him, that the lady might pass 
over it to her place on the back-seat, while the lady put 
up her vail and stood revealed : 

Geraldine Fitzgerald. 

Her beautiful face was white as marble and bore a 
strange contrast to her jet-black eyes, hair and raiment. 
Her appearance suggested the idea of a fine, full-length 
portrait done in India ink. 

Her self-control was as perfect as that of her cousin 
and late lover. 

Good morning, Gerald. We did not expect to find 
you here. We had been led to suppose that you had 
gone on to town yesterday,” she said quietly, as she 
gave him her hand. 

‘‘We should have gone on yesterday had not a slight 
accident detained us at the post-house, last night, and 
compelled us to wait for this coach,” he answered calmly, 


A TRYING RENCOUNTER. 


103 


as he took her hand and helped her over the middle 
bench to her place on the back seat. 

Never was the easy self-government of high breeding 
better exemplified than by these two Fitzgeralds, whose 
sudden and unexpected meeting in the stage-coach' had 
shaken the souls of both to their centers, while each 
preserved an urfruffied outward serenity. 

As soon as Geraldine was settled in her seat, an 
elderly woman, a stranger to our travellers, entered the 
stage-coach, also handed in by the old priest, and assisted 
to her place on the back seat by the hand of Colonel 
Fitzgerald. 

Last followed the priest himself. Father Dubarry, 
assistant priest at the little Catholic chapel of St. Pat- 
rick, near Wilde ville. 

Father Dubarry shook hands with^Gerald Fitzgerald 
and settled himself in the third place on the back seat. 
The guard closed the doors, the coachman cracked his 
whip, and the horses started. 

The first hours of the journey were passed in perfect 
silence. 

Of the two merchants on the front seat, the druggist 
was asleep, and the grocer was busy with a pencil and 
note-book. 

Gerald Fitzgerald, after he had replaced Gertrude’s 
bags on the vacant seat between himself and her, turned 
his face to the window and looked out and continued to 
look out. 

As for Gertrude, she was perhaps, if not the most un- 
happy, yet the most to be pitied. 

Since the entrance of Geraldine she had felt rather 
than seen the change in the husband whom she wor- 
shiped. He was sitting in the same place, on the same 
bench, within reach of her hand, yet she felt as if, since 
the entrance of Geraldine, he had removed himself to 


104 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


an infinite distance from her. She felt lonely and op- 
pressed with grief and mortification, as though she were 
an intruder where she had no right to be, an obstacle to 
the happiness of one whose welfare she would have 
toiled, suffered, died — done anything except sinned — to 
promote. She wondered if she had done wrong in ac- 
cepting. his rash offer of marriage, ma*de, it had been 
said, in wrath and haste, to be repented in bitterness at 
leisure ? Had she done wrong in accepting this offer of 
marriage ? 

She started, as her conscience whispered . that it was 
too late to ask that question now. She was Gerald Fitz- 
gerald's wedded wife. 

She wondered if he blamed her for accepting his hasty 
offer ? If he would grow to hate her for the position 
she occupied ? 

No, no, she answered for him I He might regret his 
own rash act, in placing her, an insuperable barrier, be- 
tween himself and his once-worshiped Geraldine ; he 
might never grow to love her : but he was too jiist and 
too noble ever to blame her for what she had done at 
his own bidding, or ever to hate her for filling the place 
into which he himself had put her. 

Gertrude felt sure of all this. 

But did Gertrude regret her own act in becoming the 
wife of Gerald Fitzgerald ? No, no, not for a single in- 
stant. 

She would not regret it. She could not but rejoice 
through all in the thought that she belonged forever to 
him, whom she utterly loved ; even now, when, though 
he sat so near, he seemed so infinitely far away. 

How she silently prayed that he would only turn and 
look at her, or speak to her, that from his glance or his 
tone she might discover his mood ! 

But he continued to sit with his face to the window, 


THE LADY AND THE PRIEST. 


105 


apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the mount- 
ain scenery. 

On the back seat the silence was, at length, broken by 
a low murmur of conversation between Father Dubarry 
and Miss Fitzgerald, but the tone was so subdued that 
their words could not be heard by any one for whom 
they were not intended. 

And so the first stage of this strange journey pro- 
gressed. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE LADY AND THE PRIEST. 

Oh, father, bear with me; my heart 
Is sick and death-like, and my brain 
Seems girdled with a fiery chain, 

Whose scorching link will never part, 

And never cool again. — J. G. Whittier, 

When Geraldine Fitzgerald fell to the floor. Miss Sue 
Greenleaf and Mademoiselle Desiree sprang to her as- 
sistance. 

“ Ah, madaine^ she is dead, she is dead !” screamed the 
French girl, wringing her hands, as she knelt beside her 
mistress. 

“ Oh, no, this is but a rush of blood to the head. See, 
her face is crimson now, not pale. Help me to raise 
her,” calmly replied Miss Sue. 

“ Mon Dieu^ she is very ill, then ! Let us lay her on 
her bed !” Exclaimed I esiree. 

“No, no, her head must be kept up. Help me to 
place her in her chair. There ! Now bring me some 
ice- water and a napkin,” 3aid Miss Greenleaf, as they 
set the unconscious form of the young lady in a large 
resting- chair. 


106 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


The French maid ran and brought the water, and 
Miss Sue began to bathe and cool the hot and throb- 
bing head. 

“ Now get for me a tablespoonful of lavender water 
and a wine glass.” 

Desiree brought the required stimulant, and Miss Sue 
put the edge of the glass to the parted lips of Geraldine, 
and so forced her to swallow its contents. 

Then she continued to lave the girl’s crimson brow 
and heated head with the ice-water until the full veins 
began to fall and the high color to fade. 

Then Geraldine moved her fixed eyes and spoke. 

1 must burn these letters,” she said, repeating the 
same words that had been upon her lips at the moment 
she fell. 

“ My dear,” said Miss Greenleaf, soothingly, as she 
persevered in bathing the head with the ice-cold water, 

my dear, you did burn the letters. See ! Their ashes 
lie on the hearth.” 

Geraldine sighed deeply, put her hand to her head for 
a few moments and then answered in a low voice : 

Yes, I believe I did.” Her hand dropped on her lap, 
and she suddenly burst forth with : Oh, Miss Green- 
leaf, what a shame !” 

“ Now compose yourself, my dear Geraldine. If you 
have any regard for your own life and health, keep 
quiet. You have had a rush of blood to the head,” 
murmured Miss Sue, still applying the ice-water. 

“ I used to be subject to that while I was studying at 
school. They — it is fatal sometimes, is it not ?” 

“No, I think not. Why do you ask ?” inquired Miss 
Sue, uneasily. 

“ I wish it was fatal, that is all.” 

“ Hush, Geraldine, hush ! Keep cool. All. v/ill be 
well yet.” 


THE LADY AND THE PRIEST. 


107 


“Oh, Miss Greenleaf, you don’t know! You don’t 
know !” wailed Geraldine. 

“Yes, I do,” whispered Miss Sue, bending low. “I 
know all about it. Let me send your maid away, so 
that we may talk together.” 

“ Yes, send her off,” murmured Geraldine. 

“ Desiree, child, leave the room. I will ring when 
Miss Fitzgerald requires your services.” 

The French girl courtesied and retired. 

“ Now, Geraldine, my love, take a little more spirits 
of lavender before you do anything else,” said Miss Sue, 
as she poured out half a wineglassful and gave it to 
her young companion. 

“Oh, Miss Greenleaf, your remedy may steady my 
nerves, but it cannot alter my circumstances,” said Ger- 
aldine, with a deep sigh, as, after drinking the lavender, 
she returned the empty glass. 

“But, my dear, steady nerves can do very much to 
ameliorate untoward circumstances, whereas distracted 
nerves only aggravate them,” said the elder lady. 

“ That is true,” murmured Geraldine, thoughtfully. 

“ Then keep yourself quite calm and cool, and tell me 
all about it. Something you have already told me — 
that you really quarreled with Gerald so seriously, late 
last night, as to order him to leave your presence and 
never to return to/t. Is that so ?” 

“Yes, Miss Greenleaf.” 

“ Oh, this fierce Fitzgerald temper ! But, my dear, 
this has happened often before and will happen often 
again, I fear. It differs in no respect from past quar- 
rels, except in the awkwardness of having occurred so 
near your wedding hour. A word from you has always 
had power to bring your banished lover back ! It will 
have the same magical effect now ! Write to Gerald 
and call him to your side.” 


108 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Oh, Miss Sue, 1 said you did not know, and you do 
not. I have written to Gerald and he has sent my 
letter back.” 

“ Sent your letter back !” exclaimed Miss Greenleaf, 
in astonishment, then — “ Ah, well, he is angry, I sup- 
pose ; but it is only a question of time — and he will 
come back. But mark this, my dear Geraldine ! 
Although, because you banished him, you were right 
in sending a letter to recall him, yet now that he has 
returned that letter without complying with its request, 
it would never do for you to make another attempt at a 
reconciliation. Maidenly delicacy and womanly dignity 
alike preclude the possibility of your making any further 
advances to Colonel Fitzgerald,” said Miss Sue, bridling 
majestically. 

“ Most certainly, I shall make no further advances 
toward a reconciliation,” replied Geraldine, with a 
strangely bitter smile ; for her half-uttered confidences 
were effectually checked by the utterances of Miss 
Greenleaf. 

“And, my dear, you must conduct yourself with 
a dignified patience. It is but a question of time. He 
has now placed himself in the wrong.” 

“Yes, most decidedly he has,” said Geraldine, grimly. 

“ Yes, and he will soon feel that he has done so — ” 

“ Indeed he will.” 

“And he will repent, and throw himself at your feet.” 
“Ah!” 

“ And then, Geraldine, you must forgive him.” 

“Ah !” 

“ Why do you keep answering me in that strange 
way, my dear ?” questioned the elder lady. 

“ Because, my good Miss Sue, I do not think you 
know much about it. Neither does any one else in the 
house but myself. However, Miss Greenleaf, it is 


THE LADY AND THE PRIEST. 


109 


necessary to take some measures with the household 
this morning to prevent gossip. Please go down-stairs 
and tell the family that the wedding is deferred on ac- 
count of my sudden indisposition. Will you ?” 

“ Certainly, my dear, for it will be the truth — anger is 
the worst of indsspositions, and that was, of course, the 
first cause of this rupture,” answered Miss Green- 
leaf. 

Geraldine smiled sardonically at the old lady’s finesse^ 
and she murmured to herself : 

“ Most people do not hesitate to practice little social 
deceptions, but Miss Sue’s conscience is so tender that 
she finds it absolutely necessary to deceive herself be- 
fore she can bring herself to deceive others. Diplo- 
matic Miss Greenleaf !” 

“ Well, my dear, is there anything else I can do for 
you ?” inquired Miss Sue, as she squeezed the dripping 
ice napkin, and hung it over the edge of the basin. 

“ Yes, please. I want you to ask Father Dubarry if 
he will be so kind as to come here and see me.” 

“ Certainly, my dear. Indeed, I think he is the very 
man you ought to see and talk with,” assented Miss 
Greenleaf as she left the room. 

As soon as she found herself alone, Geraldine dropped 
her face upon her open hands and burst into tears and 
sobs that shook her whole frame as a tempest, even 
while they relieved her overcharged bosom. 

“ Have I lost him forever ?” she cried, amidst her 
stormy pantings and streaming tears. “ Cayi I lose him 
at all ? My Gerald ! My own — my own since ever I 
can remember anything of this earth life — my own Ger- 
ald ! No, no, no ! Nothing ought to separate me from 
him ! Nothing that man can do ought to part us ! 
Nothing that man can do shall part us ! I will not give 
him up ! I will not ! He shall die first ! I will die 


no 


THE REJECTED RRIDE. 


and see him die, before I will live and let him live to be 
the husband of another woman !” 

These and many more wild words like these she 
uttered, in her madness, before a light tap at her cham- 
ber door announced Father Dubarry. 

She hastily dried her eyes, composed herself, wheeled 
her chair around so as to bring her back to the light 
and her face to the shadow, and then in as steady a tone 
as she could command she bade him come in. 

The door opened, and the priest entered. 

Father Dubarry was a man rather below the medium 
height, slender and fragile in form, fair and delicate in 
features and complexion, refined and intellectual in 
manner and expression. In years he might have been 
anywhere between thirty and fifty, for though his slim 
form was slightly bowed, and his thin, fine red hair was 
streaked with silver threads, his wan, wasted cheeks 
were unwrinkled, and his deep blue eyes beamed under 
a perfectly smooth, dome-like forehead. He wore the 
long, narrow black coat, and carried in his hand the 
cloth cap of his order. 

“ Benedicite^ my daughter,” he said, as he advanced 
into the room. 

Amen and thanks, my father, for I have great need 
of blessing,” replied Geraldine, rising to receive her 
visitor, but carefully keeping her back to the light and 
her face in deep shadow, lest the priest should see her 
tear-stained, passion-beaten face. 

“You sent for me, my child. As I understand from 
Miss Greenleaf, you want my counsel in a trying crisis,” 
said Father Dubarry, as he offered his hand. 

“ Yes, father. Please take this seat,” said Miss Fitz- 
gerald, pointing to one near her, recently vacated by 
Miss Sue. 

“ Thanks, my daughter. Now I am ready to assist 


THE LADY AND THE PRIEST. 


Ill 


you to the best of my poor ability,” replied the priest, 
taking the indicated seat, and placing his little cloth 
cap on the stand beside him. 

“ Father, I hope that Miss Sue Greenleaf has in some 
degree prepared you for what I have to communicate.” 

Father Dubarry bowed in silence. 

“ But what has she told you ?” inquired Geraldiim. 

She has hinted that a misunderstanding has arisen 
between you and Colonel Fitzgerald, who left you in 
anger last night, and has not yet returned.” 

“ And that is all she told you, father ?” 

“ No. She told me that you had very properly, and 
in a very Christian spirit, written to your betrothed 
this morning to recall him, but that he had sent back 
your letter without complying with your request. That 
is all. She told me no more.” 

“ She knew no more. No one in this house knows 
any more. But listen to me. Father Dubarry — I will 
tell you now all the wrong that has been done me, all 
the pain I have suffered and all I feel and think and 
plan, to right the wrong and ease the pain. If / am 
wrong, you will correct me ; if I an. right, you will 
assist me. You promise this ?” 

“Yes, yes, my child, I promise. 

“ Hear me, then. Oh, father, it is not only that Ger- 
ald Fitzgerald — left me in anger last night — and returned 
my letter in scorn this morning— it is not only that — 
but — ^he has — in wrath, revenge and frenzy — he has 
— married another woman ./” 

Here Geraldine’s voice, that had faltered throughout • 
this last statement, utterly broke down, and she, forget- 
ting all her native pride and dignity, dropped her head 
upon her hands and wept as if her heart would break. 

The priest was struck dumb with amazement. For 
some moments he was utterly incapable of speaking, 


112 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


SO that a deep silence ensued, broken only by the heavy 
sobs of Geraldine. 

At length Father Dubarry recovered his voice. 

“ Gerald Fitzgerald married to another woman, on 
the very morning appointed for his marriage with you ! 
Impossible, my child ! This is some wide and wild 
mio^ke.” 

‘Wo, father, it is true !” cried Geraldine, between her 
bursts of grief. “ It is true — though no one in the 
housd knows it but myself — nor should I know it — nor 
could I believe it — bnt that I had a letter — from himself, 
this morning, announcing the fact.” 

“ Do not weep so, my child, but tell me as calmly as 
you can the particulars of this mad, disastrous event,” 
said the priest, in a voice vibrating with tenderness. 

“ Oh, father, I told you he had left me in burning 
anger last night. Ah, I had myself, in my jealous fury^ 
driven him to distraction ! Oh, father, you know — who 
should know so well ? — my ‘ heritage of woe,’ my un- 
happy, insane violence of temper, which, while it lasts, 
is as the possession of a fiend ? Oh, father, that fiend 
possessed and controlled me last night and instigated 
me to heap bitter reproaches and ignominious contumely 
on my Gerald’s head, to drive him from me, and with 
scorn and hatred dare him ever to approach me again. 
He went, telling me, with awful calmness, that I had sent 
him from me once too often. This morning,- to put it 
forever out of his power to retract his words, he mar- 
ried—” 

Again her voice broke down in tears and sobs ; 
and it was some moments before she could recover her 
composure. 

“Yes, yes, my daughter, he married another woman. 
You told me that before ; but what sort of a woman 
could she have been who would have taken him at a 


THE LADY AND THE PRIEST. 


113 


moment’s notice, and in the very hour appointed for his 
marriage with you, his betrothed wife of many years !” 
exclaimed the priest, in wonder. 

“ Yes, what sort of a woman, indeed !” repeated Ger- 
aldine, in bitter scorn. 

“That Gerald Fitzgerald should have married any 
one, under such circumstances, is so shocking, it 'vl^uld 
seem to matter little who his unscrupulous bride might 
be. Yet, who was she, my daughter ?” softly inquired 
the priest. 

“ An ignorant, low-bred ferry-girl ! Of course, you 
know, father, that no respectable woman of any class 
would have married a man on the morning appointed 
for his marriage with his rightful, betrothed bride.” 

“ Her name, my daughter ?” 

“ Gertrude Haddon.” 

“ ‘ Gertrude Haddon !' ” echoed the priest. 

“ Gertrude Nobody, for she has no legal right to the 
old ferryman’s name ! An outcast, a foundling, fished 
out of the river mud after the great flood. Such is the 
girl he married.” 

“ Gertrude Haddon,” reiterated the priest ; “ this is 
much worse than I dreamed of.” 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed Geraldine, with a little irony in 
her tone. 

“ Have you ever seen this girl, my daughter ? But you 
could not have done so, for you have described what you 
suppose her to be, rather than what she is. She is not 
what you think. She is a mere child of fifteen, pretty, 
intelligent, good,” said the priest, with more emotion 
than he had yet betrayed. 

“ And to wed that woman in the face of his sacred, 
life-long betrothal to me !” said Geraldine, in a hoarse 
whisper, adding : “ Father, if I could have seen my be- 
trothed husband ten minutes before he led that reckless 


114 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


girl to the altar, I, his beloved, his affianced bride, could 
have stopped that mad, wicked, fatal marriage.” 

“ I perfectly believe you could.” 

“And, oh, how bitterly he has repented it by this 
time !” 

The priest silently assented. 

^And how much more bitterly he will repent it every 
day he lives !” 

The priest nodded gravely. 

“ Father Dubarry, mark this : Gerald Fitzgerald will 
grow to hate and despise that foolish and selfish girl, for 
having been so quick to take advantage of his brief 
madness to bind him in galling and degrading fetters 
for life ! He will loathe and detest the very sight of 
her !” fiercely hissed Geraldine, between her clenched 
teeth. 

“ That would be unnatural and most unjust. She is 
but a child,” sadly murmured the priest. 

“ Their married life will be a hell on earth !*’ 

“ Most probably. Ah, yes,” sighed the priest. 

“ Father Dubarry !” 

“ Well, my daughter.” 

“ Can not this mad marriage be broken 

“ Miss Fitzgerald !” exclaimed the priest, aghast. 

“ I repeat it ! I am not afraid to repeat it. I am not 
afraid to speak that which I am not afraid to think. I 
ask again : Can not this most insane marriage be 
broken ?” 

“ My dear daughter, the marriage is perfectly legal, 
however strange,” replied Father Dubarry. 

“ I know that. That is not what I want to inquire ; 
but whether, by his rash act, Gerald Fitzgerald is 
doomed to live and die in his degrading bondage, or 
whether, under the extraordinary circumstances, at this 
early day of the union, he might not separate himself 


c 


THE LADY AND THE PRIEST. 115 

from the girl, and afterward — ” Geraldine paused, in 
very shame, unable to speak the word she had upon 
her lips. 

“ Well, my daughter, afterward ?” 

“Have the mad marriage legally annulled,” answered 
Geraldine, in a low, deep voice. 

“ That would be barely possible, my daughter,” said 
the priest, discouragingly. 

“ But it would be possible ?” persisted Geraldine. 

“ Yes ; but — cruel and desperate,” said Mr. Dubarry, 

“ No matter ! It would be possible !” exclaimed Ger- 
aldine, with a strange gleam of triumph in her eyes. 

“ You are not irrecoverably lost to me, my Gerald I 
My own !” she muttered in the silent depths of her own 
spirit. 

“ My daughter,” gravely began Father Dubarry, 
“ although this man was long your betrothed husband, 
and although he contracted this fatal marriage in hot 
anger against you, rather than in love to the girl he 
took ; although he may deeply have repented his rash 
act by this time ; yea, although he has doomed himself 
and his bride to life-long bitter misery ; and although 
your own young life is made desolate forever— yet, Ger- 
aldine Fitzgerald, I charge you as a Christian lady — I 
charge you as a daughter of that noble house, stainless 
for a thousand years^ — that you think no more of this 
man. Think no more of him either in love or in 
revenge. Let him absolutely alone. Leave him to the 
Lord.” 

“ At least we will talk no more of him at present, 
Father Dubarry. Let us change the subject,” said Ger- 
aldine, with a peculiar smile. 

The priest gravely bent his head. 

“You are going to Washington city to-morrow morn- 
ing, I hear, Father Dubarry,” said Geraldine, 


116 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


^‘Yes ; I have to escort my maiden sister to the Con- 
vent of the Visitation in Georgetown, to commence her 
novitiate.” 

“ She is going to take the vail ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ At what time do you start to-morrow ?” 

We leave Wildeville by the five-o’clock stage.” 

‘‘ Then, Father Dubarry, I must beg you to take me 
with you. I cannot stay here !” exclaimed Geraldine. 

“ My dear child, in the present unsettled state of your 
mind, home is the very best place for you. Let me 
entreat you to remain here for the present.” 

“ Father Dubarry, I cannot do so. I am of age now, 
and I must use my freedom. I cannot stay here. If 
you refuse me your escort, I will take my French maid 
and go to Washington alone,” said Geraldine, firmly. 

“ But, my dear child, what will you do when you get 
there ?” 

“ Take board with some respectable private family, 
and — amuse myself.” 

“ But what will your friends here say to such a move- 
ment on your part ?” 

“ I do not know, and I do not care. I am of age. No 
one has a right to prevent my going to Washington. If 
you will kindly afford me your escort and protection, I 
will go with you. Jf not, I must go alone,” said Ger- 
aldine, so firmly that the priest saw at once that argu- 
ment and entreaty would alike be lost upon her. 

“ Well, my daughter, if such be your determination, 
there is nothing for me to do but to protect you on your 
journey and see you safely settled in the city,” he said. 

And soon after he took leave, with the understanding 
that he was to meet Miss Fitzgerald at the Wildeville 
stage-office the next morning. 

“ And now, my Gerald, my own, I come to your de- 


1)ANGER0US PROXIMITY. 


liverance !” she muttered, to herself. “ Henceforth, 
however, I must act without taking Father Dubarry into 
my confidence. I will use him, but not trust him. He 
is too ‘ good ’ a man. I hate ‘ good ’ men. They are so 
pitiably weak !” she added, with, a curling lip. 

That same afternoon she astounded the Greenleaf 
family with the announcement of her intended journey 
to Washington city, under the escort of Father Dubarry 
and his sister. 

And the next morning she kept her appointment with 
her fellow-travellers at Wilde ville. And thus it hap- 
pened that she overtook the newly married pair at the 
mountain post-house, and journeyed in their company. 

We must now return to that party in the stage-coach. 


CHAPTER X. 

DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. 

’Til now, thy soul has been 
Serene as May ; 

Bid it awake and look 
At grief to-day. 

“ No shade has come between 
Thee and the sun ; 

Like some long, childish dream 
Thy life has run : 

But now the stream has reached 
A dark, deep sea. 

And Sorrow, dim and crown’d. 

Is waiting thee.” 

At four o'clock in the afternoon of that second day’s 
journey, the stage-coach stopped to change horses at a 
picturesque point called Hemlock Hole, at the foot of a 
lofty range of mountains. 


118 THE REJECTED BRIDE. 

The two young commercial travellers got out here to 
stretch their cramped limbs and to take a drink. 

Colonel Fitzgerald followed their example, but after 
he had left the coach, he turned, stopped at the open 
door, and for the first time in several hours, spoke to his 
young wife. 

“ Would you like to come out and walk for a while ?” 
he inquired, somewhat coldly. 

“No, I thank you. Colonel Fitzgerald,'’ she answered, 
with a pathetic humility in her tone, which was quite 
involuntary. She had not intended to call him “ Colonel 
Fitzgerald ” either ; only since the advent of Geraldine 
a distance had arisen and widened between them that 
made it impossible for her to address him familiarly. 

“ You will not have another opportunity to leave the 
coach until we shall have crossed this range of mount- 
ains and reached White Plains on the other side, you 
must understand,” he said, in constrained tones, as he 
lingered at the door. 

“ I would rather not move, thank you, sir,” she re- 
peated. 

“ Shall I send you anything from the house ?” he next 
inquired. 

“ Nothing, I am much obliged to you, sir.” 

“Very well, then, do as you please,” he answered, as 
he left the coach-door and walked toward the house. 

But before he had gone many yards he turned and 
hurried back, put his head in at the window, and signed 
to Gertrude to bend her ear. 

She obeyed him, and he whispered : 

“ Do not leave the coach during my absence, as you 
did once before.” 

“ I will not, sir,” she murmured in reply. 

“ And, mark this, do not enter into conversation with 
any one in the coach.” 


DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. 


119 


“ I will not, Colonel Fitzgerald.” 

“ V^ry well,” he said, and hurried away. 

The litte dog Nelly jumped off her mistress’s lap and 
trotted away after her master. 

Gertrude impulsively stretched out her arms. 

Never mind that. I will look after the little dog,” 
said Gerald Fitzgerald, flinging the words over his 
shoulder as he hurried on, followed by Nelly. 

Gertrude sank back in her seat. 

He l^ad looked at her, spoken to her, shown her some 
attention, but there was something missing, from his 
look and tone and manner, that had been present in 
them until the entrance of Geraldine. 

Gertrude was now alone in the coach, but for the 
presence of the people on the back seat — the priest, the 
lady and the elderly female. 

They were still conversing in the same low, hereto- 
fore inaudible tone. But owing to the stillness of the 
coach, there were some detached phrases of their con- 
versation which reached Gertrude’s ears whether she 
would or no. 

« * * * Repented as soon as done. * * * Ashamed of 
himself and his bargain already * * * and before long 
he * * *” These broken phrases were from Geraldine. 

a* * * Evidently * * * and she such. a low-born, ill- 
bred girl ! * * * There never was such a bold creature. 
* * * Forward piece * * * rue it * * * day she lives,” 
from the elderly woman, whose position it seemed diffi- 
cult to define between that of a chaperon and that of a 
servant. 

Gertrude heard enough to know that Colonel Fitz- 
gerald and herself were the subjects of their animadver- 
sions. Every word that reached her ears stabbed her 
to the heart. And this continued until the noise of the 
hostlers leading away the tired horses and bringing up 


120 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


the fresh ones drowned the words of the conversa- 
tion. • 

The coachman climbed up on his box and blew his 
horn. The passengers came hurrying back and climbed 
into their seats. 

Colonel Fitzgerald entered, followed by little Nelly, 
who squatted herself on the vacant seat, between her 
master and mistress. 

The stage-coach crept along through the rugged and 
tortuous pass until they had crossed the last ridge of 
mountains west of the great valley, and a good road 
through a beautiful country lay before them — a country 
diversified by hill and dale, woods and waters, meadows 
green, now even late in September, and forests just 
tinged with the glorious coloring of autumn. 

They had not long to enjoy the beauty of the pros- 
pect. Tho sun was sinking low on the horizon behind 
them ; but they seemed to make the most of the time. 
Even the two practical shop-keepers from Wildeville 
grew enthusiastic in commenting on the landscape. 
And Gerald Fitzgerald never withdrew his eyes from 
the window until the sun went down and twilight faded 
into night and hid the scene from sight. 

At nine o’clock they reached White Plains, in the 
valley, where the stage-coach stopped for supper. 

There was the usual hurry and bustle, flashing of 
lights and jostling of servants, before the passengers 
could alight and go into the little hotel. 

All got out — first the two store-keepers, then Gerald 
and Gertrude, last the priest and his party. 

“ I think we will take supper in a private room. I do 
not like the public table and the company of strangers,” 
said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he hurried his young wife 
into the house. 

“Yes, sir,” said Gertrude, scarcely above her breath. 


DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. 


121 


As they entered the house, Colonel Fitzgerald gave 
an order in a low voice to a negro waiter, at the same 
time slipping a piece of money in his hand. 

“Yes, sar,” exclaimed the man, and immediately 
opened a door on the right and ushered the gentleman 
and lady into a small sitting-room, clean and bare, 
warmed by an open wood-fire, lighted by a pair of tal- 
low candles that stood in d^rass candle-sticks, on the 
mantel-piece, and furnished with a small pine table and 
six chip-bottomed chairs. 

Gertrude sat down on one of these stiff -backed chairs, 
and Gerald walked to the fire-place, and stood with his 
back to the fire. 

The waiter came in and hastily set the table, then ran 
out and hurriedly brought in the supper, saying, as he 
arranged it on the board : 

“ Only fifteen minutes till de stage start, marster.” 

“Very well ; you may go,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

The waiter went. 

“ Sit down, Gertrude,” he added, as he dropped into a 
chair at the table. 

She placed herself before the tea-tray, filled a cup, 
and passed it to him. 

He took it, set it down beside his plate, and passed 
bread, ham, chicken and other edibles up to her ; but 
all in perfect silence, and with a mechanical and ab- 
stracted air. 

Gertrude drank her own tea, but noticed that Gerald 
neither ate nor drank. 

He sat with his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, 
and his head leaning down on his hand. 

The mist of unshed tears again dimmed the young 
wife’s eyes, as she inquired softly and timidly : 

“ Please — why do you not take anything ?” 

“ I am neither hungry nor thirsty,” he answered. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


m 

• Oh ! Do you not feel well ?” she next asked, almost 
afraid now of the sound of her own voice. 

“Yes, quite well. Do not disturb yourself about me, 
Gertrude." 

“ Sir," she whispered, in a faint voice, “ have I done 
anything to displease you ?" 

“ No, Gertrude. Why should you ask ?" 

“ Because — you seem so different." 

“ A man cannot always be the same," he said, as he 
arose from the table and opened the door to speak to the 
waiter in the hall, for bells did not abound in that hotel. 

He paid his bill as soon as the man came up, and 
then he turned to Gertrude, and said : 

“ Come, it is time to return to our seats." 

They went back to the stage-coach, where they found 
Geraldine and her party already seated. 

The two merchants now climbed into their places and 
settled themselves for a nap. 

And once more the stage started. 

The night’s journey was a smooth one as to the valley 
road, and a silent one as to the travellers. 

The passengers on the back seat apparently slept — 
two of them, the priest and the old lady, certainly did, 
for they both snored sonorously. 

Gerald Fitzgerald was so silent and motionless, it was 
impossible to tell in the darkness whether he slept or 
not. 

Gertrude waked and wept in her comer — thankful for 
the cover of night that hid her tears — Gertrude waked 
and wept, for now she feared that she had spoiled the 
life of him for whose life she would willingly have laid 
down her own. 

At length, she prayed for light to see her duty, and 
strength to do it. 

Twice before morning the stage-coach stopped to 


DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. 


123 


change horses, where lights flashed in and out, and 
ran to and fro, until the work was done, and the coach 
went on. But none of the tired and sleepy passenefers 
had left it. 

Toward morning it was known by the slow and toil- 
some motion of the coach that they had crossed the 
whole width of the great valley and were slowly climb- 
ing the precipices of the Blue Ridge that separated the 
valley from the plains of the shore. At sunrise they 
stopped at Frostberg, on the top of the mountain, for 
breakfast. 

Here all the passengers got out and paused for a mo- 
ment to view the sublime picture of the sunrise from the 
top of the mountain. 

But the breakfast-bell called them in. 

Here, again, Colonel Fitzgerald ordered a private 
room and a tete-a-tHe table for himself and his wife. 

Here again he sat silent, eating very little. 

On this occasion Gertrude forbore to ask him any 
questions. She did not need to do so. She knew too 
well the cause of his abstraction. She could not eat, 
but she drank her coffee and fed her little dog from her 
own fingers. 

Only fifteen minutes were allowed for breakfast, and 
then the stage-horn sounded, calling all the passengers 
to take their places. 

When they were all seated, the stage-coach started off 
with renewed speed and began to descend the east 
slope of the mountain. 

Twice between sunrise and noon the coach stopped to 
change horses and mail-bags and went on again. 

At noon they stopped at Drainsville to dinner. 

Here again the same scene was repeated. Gerald and 
Gertrude had a private table, and ate their dinner with 
scarcely the exchange of a word, 


124 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


With the decline of that day their strange journey 
drew to an end. By sunset they had reached Alex- 
andria, and at dark they entered Washington. 

At that day that line of coaches was a really accom- 
modating one. Each coach on its arrival used to de- 
posit its travellers wherever they wished to be set 
down, within the limits of the city. 

Our coach first pulled up at its office, behind a hotel 
which was then called “ Fuller’s.” 

The guard came to the door and inquired of the pas- 
sengers : 

“ Any gentleman or lady for this house ?” 

We will stop here,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, imme- 
diately alighting and reaching his hand for Gertrude, 
who soon got out and stood by his side. 

The little dog sprang after them. 

“ Take that light luggage out and send it into the 
house,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

And he drew Gertrude’s hand over his arm and led 
her into the office of the hotel, and pointed to a chair. 

She drew her vail over her face, and sat there, wait- 
ing, while Gerald went up to the counter to engage 
rooms. 

There were but a few loiterers in the office, for this 
was the dull season for Washington hotels. 

Gertrude watched uneasily to see whether any of 
their late fellow-travellers intended to come in and stop 
at this house. 

Apparently they did not, for no one entered the 
office.” 

Presently Colonel Fitzgerald turned toward her, and 
said : 

“ Come !” 

She arose and followed him, attended by a porter, 
who carried their luggage, and preceded by a waiter 


DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. 


125 


with a key, who led them up a long, well-lighted pas- 
sage to a door leading to a suit of three rooms, consist- 
ing of parlor, chamber and bath. 

The porter put down his burden in the middle of the 
parlor floor and departed. 

The waiter lighted the chandelier that hung from the 
ceiling, and then stood for orders. 

“ Have supper served here in an hour,” said Colonel 
Fitzgerald. 

The man touched his brow and went out. 

“ Try to make yourself comfortable here, Gertrude. 
I must go down to the reading-room and look at the 
papers,” he added, in explanation, as he went out, clos- 
ing the door behind him, and leaving his young wife 
alone in her new apartment. 

Gertrude dropped into an easy-chair, covered her face 
with her hands and wept, under such a sense of loneli- 
ness and desolation as she had never before known in 
all her young life. 

But presently she dried her tears and took herself to 
task as being foolish and exacting. 

“ He is very kind to me, very, very kind, notwith- 
standing that — that he scarcely has spoken a word to 
me in the last twenty-four hours — thirty-six hours 
indeed — and that he cannot love me. Well, he never 
said that he could ; he never deceived me ; but, oh, 
there is something here^"' she murmured to. herself, 
placing her two hands over her heart — “ something here 
that assures me he will some day love me !” 

The waiter knocked, asked permission, and then en- 
tered to lay the cloth for supper. 

Gertrude arose and looked around upon her new 
rooms. 

The parlor was furnished in the garish taste of the 
hotels of that time, with a highly-colored, large-patterned 


126 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Brussels carpet, scarlet moreen, and coarse white lace 
window curtains, gilt cornice and mirrors, white-and-red- 
striped brocatelle lounges and chair covers, and a pol- 
ished steel grate, in which glowed an anthracite-coal 
fire ; finally, a round marble-top center-table, over which 
hung a lighted chandelier, and on which the busy waiter 
was now arranging the supper. 

Gertrude went into the adjoining chamber to take off 
her wraps and bathe her face. 

The bedroom was furnished very like the parlor, with 
the addition of a large bed and a marble-top bureau. 
Gertrude laid off her hat and shawl, and looked around 
for a wash-stand. Seeing none, she passed into the 
bath-room, where she found what she needed. 

She made her toilet quickly, only bathing her face and 
hands, dressing her hair and putting on a clean collar 
and pair of cuffs. 

Then she hurried into the parlor, fearing that she 
might have kept Gerald waiting. But he was not there. 

She went to the window and looked out upon Penn- 
sylvania Avenue, but could see nothing distinctly except 
the rows of- lighted lamps on each side. 

The waiter reentered the room, placed the supper on 
the table, then bowed, and said respectfully : 

“ All ready, madam.” 

“ Please go to the reading-room and let Colonel Fitz- 
gerald know.” 

The man touched his forehead, and went out. 

Gertrude took the coffee-pot off the table and placed 
it on the hob of the grate, to keep hot. 

In a few moments the man returned, and said : 

“ The gentleman has gone out, ma'am.” 

“Very well; when he comes in, let him know that 
supper is waiting.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” 


DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. 


m 

The waiter went out, and Gertrude threw herself in 
the easy-chair to rest, saying patiently : 

“ I suppose he has stepped out to make some little 
purchase and will return in a few moments," and she 
lay back in the chair and closed her tired eyes. 

Now, whether it came about from the effect of the 
perfect stillness and silence after two days and nights of 
noise and motion in the jolting and rattling stage-coach, 
or from her loss of sleep or her intense fatigue or the 
heat of the room or — as is most probable, from all those 
causes put together, I do not know — ^but Gertrude fell 
fast asleep and slept soundly like a weary child as she 
was, for several hours. 

She awoke at last quite refreshed, but unconscious of 
the length of time through which she had slept. 

The room was still brilliantly lighted and warmed. 
The elegant little supper stood on the marble-top table. 

She had no idea what time it was. 

She went and rung the bell, and waited, but no one 
answered it. She rang again loudly and longer, and 
then the summons was answered by a stranger. 

“ Where is the waiter who attends this room ?" in- 
quired Gertrude. 

“ He is not up yet, ma'am," answered the new one, 
who could evidently scarcely suppress a yawn. 

“ Not up yet ? What do you mean ? Not up where ?” 
inquired Gertrude, in perplexity. 

“ Not out of bed yet, ma’am. He don't get up till six. 
It ain’t much after five yet,*' answered the sleepy man. 

“ Do you mean five in the morning ?" 

“Yes, ma’am, surely," answered the man, glancing 
around the room to see if he could discern empty bot- 
tles and glasses, as signs of a night's revelry ; for he 
saw that the lady had not been in bed, and he suspected 
that she was not in her senses. 


128 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


But Gertrude, in utter perplexity and amazement, 
hurried across the room, raised the heavy curtains and 
looked out. 

Yes, it was morning ! Day had already dawned, and 
the eastern horizon was flushed with the approach of 
the sun. 

She threw herself down in the easy-chair and covered 
her face with her hand, and tried to collect her 
thoughts. 

“ Yes ! Overcome with heat and fatigue, I must have 
fallen asleep in my soft chair and slept all night ! 
Slept until I had slept my sleep out ! But Gerald — 
where is he ? Could he have returned to the room, and 
finding me asleep, left it again? Or could he have 
gone to rest ?” 

With that thought, she arose hastily and hurried into 
the adjoining chamber and looked around. 

She found the place as vacant as she had left it. 

She hurried back into the parlor, and said to the man 
in attendance : 

“ When my waiter rises, please ask him to come here 
as soon as possible.” 

The man bowed and retreated. 

Gertrude sat down and tried to reflect. 

And here her unsuspicious and confiding nature 
saved her much suffering. 

“ I am so very ignorant and inexperienced in the 
ways of cities and of men, that I do not even know 
whether there is anything unusual in my husband’s ab- 
sence or not, and I must be careful not to compromise 
him by showing any anxiety or asking any questions. 
He may have been called away by some friend, and 
left a note of explanation for me with the waiter. Of 
course he will be in very soon now,” she said to herself. 

Presently there came a knock at the door. 


DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. 


129 


“ Come in,” she said, eagerly looking up. 

The waiter of the night before entered. 

She looked at him anxiously, breathlessly. 

The man only stood and bowed, as waiting orders. 

She forebore to ask him whether he had any note or 
message for her or to make any other inquiry that 
might betray her anxiety or seem to implicate her hus- 
band. Besides she said to herself : 

“ The man has no note or message for me ; if he had 
he would deliver it. He knows nothing, or at least he 
has nothing to say. I must be patient.” 

“ Any orders, madam ?” at length inquired the waiter. 

“Yes. Clear off this supper service, if you please, 
and set the table for breakfast,” said Gertrude. 

“ Shall I serve breakfast immediately, madam ?” 

“ No, not until Colonel Fitzgerald comes in.” 

While the waiter busied himself in piling up plates 
and dishes to carry them away, Gertrude went into her 
bedroom, closed the door and began to make her morn- 
ing toilet. 

“Yes, I must be patient and self-controlling,” she 
said, as she unwound the twists of her dark hair and 
set it flowing over her shoulders. 

But even while she said this a strange oppression and 
foreboding weighed upon her heart and darkened her 
mind. 

When she had finished dressing she returned to the 
parlor. 

The table was arranged for breakfast and the waiter 
had left the room. 

Gertrude seated herself at one of the front windows 
to watch the scene on the avenue — not a very lively 
scene at this season of the year, but to the mountain 
girl, fresh from the Wilderness of West Virginia, a won- 
derful panorama of busy life. 


130 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Yet, though she gazed upon it, she could not interest 
herself in it. 

Where was Gerald ? What kept him away ? When 
would he return ? 

These were the questions that continually reiterated 
themselves to her deep disturbance. 

While she sat, the door opened. 

She sprang up eagerly, expecting to see her husband, 
for who else would dare enter her room without 
knocking ? She sprang to meet her husband, and con- 
fronted — 

Geraldine ! 

There she stood, her tall, commanding form still 
dressed in deep mourning, her beautiful pale face wear- 
ing a look of irony. 

“ Miss Fitzgerald !” exclaimed Gertrude, in surprise. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Fitzgerald, for I presume you have or 
think you have aright to that name !” sneered Geraldine. 

“ I do not understand you. Miss Fitzgerald. But will 
you be seated ?” said Gertrude, controlling herself, and 
offering a chair to her visitor. 

“ Thanks, yes ; for I have something to say to you,” 
answered Geraldine, sinking into the easy-chair. “ I re- 
peat you think you have a right to the name of Fitz- 
gerald, I presume ?” 

“ Such a right as my husband could confer, when he 
conferred it on me in marriage,” replied the young wife, 
with quiet dignity. 

“ ‘ My husband !’ How glibly you say ‘ my husband !’ 
Do you really imagine that you have^ or had, a hus- 
band ? Ha-ha-ha !” laughed the lady, in cruel scorn. 

'‘Miss Fitzgerald !" exclaimed Gertrude, crimson with 
indignation. 

“Aye, you do well to blush, girV! You have good 
cause. You were so eager to snatch =at a gentleman’s 


WOUNDED. 


131 


first reckless offer to marry you that you never paused 
to consider whether he was really free to do so. Gerald 
Fitzgerald has discovered in good time that he was not 
free to marry you — neither free in hand nor free in 
heart. He has left you. You will never see him more.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

WOUNDED. 

The lot is on you, silent tears to weep 

And patient smiles to wear, through suffering’s hour. 

And sumless riches, from affection’s deep. 

To pour on arid sands — a wasted shower. 

And to raise idols and to find them clay, 

And oh, to love through all things : therefore pray. 

— Felicia Hemans. 

To Geraldine’s astounding annunciation Gertrude 
made no reply. 

Geraldine gazed on her quiet face with astonishment, 
and exclaimed : 

“ Did you hear what I said ? Do you understand it ? 
Have you ears ? Have you reason ?” 

“Yes, I heard and understood you. Miss Fitzgerald,” 
replied Gertrude. 

“ I scarcely believe that you did. I told you that your 
marriage with Gerald Fitzgerald was a sacrilegious 
farce ! I told you that Colonel Fitzgerald knows that 
now, and he has left you forever. You will never see 
him more !” 

“ That is what you told me,” quietly replied the young 
wife. 

^‘Well !** exclaimed the lady, amazed at her calmness. 

“ I do not believe it, Mi§§ Fitzgerald,” said Gertrude, 

emphatically. 


132 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“What!” exclaimed Geraldine, in indignant amaze- 
ment. 

“ I do not believe it,” reiterated Gertrude, even more 
emphatically than before. 

“ How dare you ? How dare you say that ! Dd you 
presume to doubt my veracity ?” demanded Miss Fitz- 
gerald, bending her burning black eyes upon the young 
being before her as if she would consume and shrivel 
up her slender form. 

“ No, madam, I do not presume to doubt your verac- 
ity ; but I know that you are mistaken,” said Gertrude, 
with the most provoking pertinacity. 

“Ah ! You know that I am mistaken ! Pray, how do 
you know that ?” sneered Geraldine. 

“ Because I know that our marriage is a true and 
sacred union, and I know my husband has not left me 
forever, and that he will surely soon return,” answered 
Gertrude, with a quiet faith, that infuriated her hearer. 

“You cannot deny,” exclaimed Geraldine, white with 
suppressed rage ; “ you cannot deny that he went out 
last night without a word, a message or a note of ex- 
planation, that he remained away all night and has not 
even yet returned ?” 

“ No,” said Gertrude, putting a severe constraint upon 
herself. “ I cannot deny that. Yet I feel sure that he 
must have been called away suddenly, unexpectedly, 
and detained by some unavoidable circumstance.” 

“ Indeed !” cried Geraldine, with a curling lip. “ Why 
then has he not sent you a message or a note ? Tell me 
that, if you please.” 

“ I cannot tell you. I do not know. Possibly he has 
sent me one or the other.” 

“ Really ! If so, why have you not received it ?” 

“ Notes and messages sent sometimes fail to be de- 
livered,” 


WOUNDED. 


133 


Geraldine sprang up from her seat and began walking 
up and down the floor with impatient steps ; presently 
she paused before .the quiet, self-controlled little wife, 
and said : 

“ What if this man has se^it you no word of his ab- 
sence ?” 

“ Then he will explain it hereafter.” 

Suppose he fails to do so ?” 

It will be because he has some honorable motive for 
his silence.” 

Bah!'' exclaimed Geraldine, with a fierce stamp of 
her foot ! “You are the most contemptible idiot I ever 
saw in my life. Look here !” she added, suddenly 
throwing herself into her chair. “ Listen to me ! If you 
had not been the most pitiable of fools you never would 
have married Gerald Fitzgerald under the circum- 
stances.” 

“ If I had been such as you represent me. Miss Fitz- 
gerald, Colonel Fitzgerald would never have made me 
his wife,” replied Gertrude, with a meek dignity. 

“ Oh, yes, he would — under the circumstances ! It 
was because he knew that you were an idiot that he 
asked you to be his wife. He knew well enough that 
none but an idiot would have accepted him at such a 
time. Why, he only married you to revenge himself 
upon me, his beloved and betrothed bride, with whom 
he was insanely angry. He bitterly repents now, and 
he would give his right hand to undo what he has done ! 
He never Xo^^^you ! You do not presume to think he 
ever loved yon ! Why, he never even pretended to love 
you ! For, with all his faults, Gerald Fitzgerald is a 
truthful man, and would make no false professions to 
any woman. I defy you to say that he even pretended 
to love you when he asked you to marry him !” ex- 
claimed Geraldine, in triumphant scorn. 


134 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Gertrude was silent. 

“ Why do you not answer me ? Did Gerald Fitzgerald 
ever profess to love you ? Answer, me, I say, directly.” 

“ Miss Fitzgerald, I consider it improper of you to ask 
such a question. It would be still more improper of 
me to answer it. Surely ; you know that the confi- 
dences between a husband and wife should be held 
sacred,” mildly replied Gertrude. 

Geraldine sprang to her feet with the spring of a 
tigress. 

‘‘ Why cannot I blast her where she stands, with one 
blaze from my soul !” she cried, as she walked up and 
down the floor. 

At length, once more she came and threw herself 
down into the easy-chair, and said, with a slow, delib- 
erate, scornful, cutting intonation : 

“ ‘ Confidences between a husband and wife,’ ‘ confi- 
dences between ’ Gerald Fitzgerald and — you — you ! 
Ha-ha ! Precious little confidence between you, • I 
should judge, by what I witnessed while I had the 
doubtful honor of travelling in your company ! Why, 
he scarcely spoke to you, or even looked at you. Confi- 
dence ! Ha-ha-ha !” 

Gertruds remained perfectly quiet under this on- 
slaught. 

“Listen, girl!” continued her tormentor. “You re- 
fused to answer my question. I will answer it- for 
myself. Gerald Fitzgerald never pretended to love you. 
He is the soul of honor, and never stooped to false pre- 
tensions. He never loved you, and know it !" 

Gertrude was silent. 

“ And now he loathes you. And you know it 

“ No, Heaven forbid ! I do not know that,” replied 
Gertrude, gravely. 

^‘Whether you acknowledge it or not, it is true. 


WOUNDED. 


135 


Gerald Fitzgerald loathes you as the embodied ruin of 
his life — despises you, as the contemptible creature who 
could catch a man at a rebound and hold him fettered 
against his will for life. Yes ! Gerald Fitzgerald not 
only never loved you, but now loathes and despises you, 
as he took no pains to conceal, but openly displayed in 
his every word, look and act, during our two days’ jour- 
ney together. I defy you to contradict me !” exclaimed 
Geraldine, fiercely. 

Gertrude did not contradict the statement, but 
quietly put out her hand and pulled the bell-rope that 
hung within her reach. 

“ I am waiting for an answer,” said Geraldine, after 
scornfully regarding the young wife. 

“ You will have one in a few moments,” answered 
Gertrud^, calmly. 

A rap came to the door. 

“ Come in,” said Gertrude. 

A waiter entered, bowed and inquired : 

“ Did you ring, madam ?” 

“ Yes. Be so kind as to show this lady to the street 
door. Good morning. Miss Fitzgerald,” said the young 
wife, rising courteously and passing on toward her bed- 
room. 

Geraldine Fitzgerald stood for a moment astounded. 
She had not expected any such move from the meek 
Gertrude, the humble “ ferry-girl.” 

The waiter bowed and stood ready to attend the lady 
out. 

“You can retire. I shall not leave just yet,” said 
Miss Fitzgerald, haughtily. 

The polite waiter bowed again and withdrew. 

Geraldine walked up to the chamber door, opened it 
without ceremony and passed in. 

She surprised Gertrude in a pensive attitude, seated 


136 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


by the window, looking vacantly out upon the avenue. 
She went up behind her, tapped her smartly upon 
the shoulder. 

Gertrude started and looked around in surprise. 

“Thanks for your courtesy in calling a waiter to 
attend me, but I am not quite ready to depart yet,” said 
Geraldine, in a mocking voice. Then, changing her 
tone to one of haughty scorn, she continued : “ Pray, did 
you imagine that / could be dismissed at your pleasure, 
like any other unwelcome visitor ? No, you do not get 
rid of me so very easily.” 

Gertrude gazed on the speaker in utter astonishment. 
She had not expected to find such a want of dignity, 
courtesy and even common self-respect in one of Miss 
Fitzgerald’s birth and breeding. Gertrude was too inex- 
perienced to know that pride, propriety, decorum — all 
minor considerations are swept away by the impetuous 
torrent of a passion and a purpose such as propelled 
Geraldine now. 

“ No, our interview is not at an end yet. I have some- 
thing more to say to you,” continued Geraldine. 

“ If you must resume your conversation with me, I 
must request you. Miss Fitzgerald, to put some re- 
straint upon yourself. Your words not only wrong me 
— which is of little matter, indeed — ^but they assail my 
husband’s truth and honor. To such words I cannot 
and — excuse me — I will not listen,” said Gertrude. 

“ Ah !” sneered Geraldine, “ you seem to love this hus- 
band, as you call him, very much. But do you really^ 
now ? Answer me !” 

“ My husband is the only one who has the right to 
ask that question of me, and to him only will I answer 
it,” said Gertrude, quietly. 

Geraldine gave a fierce stamp of impatience, but 
almost immediately controlled herself and remarked : 


WOUNDED. 


137 


“You still refuse to answer my questions. Then I 
must still answer myself. Yes, you do love Gerald Fitz- 
gerald, although you know your love is not returned.” 

Gertrude was silent. 

“ Such a love would seem to be pure and unselfish. It 
is not the trading love of ordinary lovers, who exchange 
love for love ; it gives itself away for nothing,” said 
Miss Fitzgerald, who having failed to terrify or to exas- 
perate the gentle, loyal young wife, now essayed to rule 
her through her disinterested affection and self-devotion. 

Gertrude listened, wondering what the lady meant 
now, Geraldine continued : 

“ Such is the love you bear Gerald Fitzgerald. You 
do not love him for your own sake, but for his sake. 
You did not marry him to please yourself, but to please 
him — ” 

“ Oh, but I must interrupt you here. Miss Fitzgerald. 
I did marry to please myself as well as to please him. 
He willed me to be his wife. I delighted to submit my- 
self to his will. I would rather, since he wished me to 
do so, have become his wife, unloved as I was, than to 
have fulfilled the most brilliant destiny on earth,” said 
Gertrude, taken off her guard. 

Geraldine made a gesture of impatience, but con- 
trolled herself, and continued : 

“ Yes, and why? Because you thought your compli- 
ance with his wishes would please him, would make 
him happy. Did you not ?” 

“Yes,” replied Gertrude, in a low voice. 

“ But you must see that it has not made him happy ; 
on the contrary, it has made him miserable by ruining 
his life. And your only object, then, was his happiness ?” 

“ Yes,” murmured Gertrude. 

“ And your only object now is his happiness ?” 

“ Yes,” repeated Gertrude, coming more and more 


138 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


under the influence of the stronger nature hy which she 
was beginning to be magnetized. 

“ You would do anything now to reinstate him in 
happiness, would you not ?” 

“ Heaven knows that I would do anything right to 
make him happy. Anything wrong would never do 
so,” said Gertrude. 

“ Of course not. Now, my girl, I see that you are a 
different person from what I had supposed you to be. 
You are not the selfish, forward, artful girl, people be- 
lieve you to be. I am very sorry that I among others 
mistook you. I am sure now that you would dp any- 
thing you could to reestablish Gerald Fitzgerald in his 
broken life. Shall I tell you how you may do it ?” 

“ Yes, if you please, Miss Fitzgerald.” 

“ But it will require some sacrifice on your part.” 

“ That is not worth a moment’s thought. Tell me how 
I can serve Colonel Fitzgerald’s best interests.” 

thought you would say that. Listen, then. You 
can restore Gerald Fitzgerald to his happiness by an act 
of the highest virtue and self-devotion. It is needless 
to remind you, my poor girl, that he married you, whom 
he did not and could not love, in a moment of frenzied 
anger against me to whom he was betrothed and whom 
he had loved for many years, and does love still and 
must ever love, and that consequently this mad marriage 
has made him unutterably miserable. I say I need not 
remind you of all this, for you yourself know it well.” 

Gertrude sighed. 

“ How, then, can Gerald Fitzgerald be saved from the 
lasting consequences of his own rash act ? He can do 
nothing. Only you can do anything to relieve him.” 

“ Oh, how ?” sighed Gertrude. 

“ By a high act of self-sacrifice, as I told you.” 

Explain. What shall I do ?” 


WOUNDED. 


139 


“ Listen : When I first came in this evening, I told 
you that your marriage with Gerald Fitzgerald was a 
sacrilegious farce. It was a sorrowful truth, though 
too bitterly told.” 

“ Oh, Miss Fitzgerald — a truth !” moaned the young 
wife. 

“ Yes ; for a man to marry a woman whom he does 
not love is sacrilege. I told you further that Gerald 
Fitzgerald had left you forever, and that you would 
never see him more.” 

“ Oh, Miss Fitzgerald ! But that was not the truth,” 
sighed Gertrude. 

“ Yes, it was the truth, for you will make it so ! If you 
love Colonel Fitzgerald, as you say you do — if you value 
his welfare more than you do your own — if you prefer 
his happiness above your own, then, Gertrude, your own 
self-sacrifice for his sake will make my words true. Are 
you ready to make this sacrifice ?” solemnly demanded 
the young lady. 

“ Oh, Miss Fitzgerald, I do not understand you, at 
least I hope I do not,” said the young wife. 

“ I think you do ; but I can explain more clearly. If 
you love Gerald Fitzgerald more than you love your- 
self, so that you are willing to sacrifice yoursel^or him, 
you may make my words true by going away to-day and 
never seeing him more.” 

“ Miss Fitzgerald ! You do not mean it !” cried Ger- 
trude, aghast. 

Hush, do not interrupt me, my girl ! I wish to en- 
lighten you ! Your marriage with Gerald Fitzgerald is 
sacrilegious upon more accounts than one. For at least 
a half a dozen reasons, either one of which would be 
enough to curse it !" 

Gertrude groaned and dropped her face upon her 
hands. 


140 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Shall I recount these reasons ? First, then, the mar- 
riage is sacrilegious, because it was contracted without 
love on the bridegroom’s part. Secondly, because it was 
done for revenge. Thirdly, because it was done in the 
face of a solemn betrothal existing between the bride- 
groom and another woman. Attend particularly to this 
point. Gerald Fitzgerald is a loyal son of the Roman 
Catholic Church, as all his forefathers have been for a 
dozen centuries. I also am a faithful child of the church, 
as all my ancestors have been for centuries. In our 
earliest youth Gerald and myself were solemnly be- 
trothed, with prayer and benediction, by a holy priest. 
In our holy church such a betrothal is held to be almost 
as sacred as marriage itself — so sacred, indeed, as not to 
be broken except by sin or by death. But Gerald Fitz- 
gerald broke through it to marry you. Therefore was 
his marriage unholy and unlawful. And, being so, the 
union may properly be dissolved. I have thus shown 
you the counts upon which your marriage with Gerald 
Fitzgerald is sacrilegious, as he knows it to be, as well 
as we do. And not only is it sacrilegious in itself, but 
so unseemly as to impair his worldly position as a gen- 
tleman, and so repugnant to his feelings as to ruin his 
whole life’s happiness. Yet he can do nothing — as a 
gentleman, he can do nothing to free himself. Only 
you can free him.” 

“ How?” breathed Gertrude, in an expiring voice. 

“ By going away at once, where he will never see you 
again. That will, aft^r a few years, give him an oppor- 
tunity to obtain a legal dissolution of these unholy bonds.” 

“ Is that what you wish me to do, Miss Fitzgerald ?” 

“ Yes — and understand me. You shall not go unpro- 
vided. I will give you a thousand dollars in fifty-dollar 
notes, and repeat the donation every six months until 
you remarry, as you will some day.” 


WOUNDED. 


141 


“ vSo that is what I must do.” 

“ Yes ; that is what you must do.” 

“ Miss Fitzgerald, it is my sentence of death.” 

“ Nonsense ! You will get over it.” 

“ It is my sentence of death, and I am willing to suffer 
it for my husband’s sake.” 

“ Noble girl ! I knew you would be !” 

“ But, Miss Fitzgerald, I must receive that sentence 
from my husband’s lips alone — from no others — not from 
yours,” said Gertrude, with a sweet solemnity, peculiar 
to herself in her graver moods. 

What !” demanded Geraldine, in consternation. 

‘‘ I must receive my sentence only from him to whom 
I have given myself ; to whom my life belongs ; who 
has the whole disposal of my fate !” 

“ Then you will never serve him, for he will never 
consent ! Gertrude, you must leave this place without 
seeing him, if you would serve him,” exclaimed Ger- 
aldine. 

“No, I must not, I will not, I dare not. To do so 
would be to break my marriage vows. I will lay the 
whole case bfefore my husband and abide his decision, 
whether it be for life in his presence, or death in ban- 
ishment from him.” 

“ Girl, you know that he will never consent to send 
you away, however it may wreck him to keep you. You 
must leave him without consulting him, if you really 
wish to secure his future happiness. Come, you need 
not fear for your future. I will give you a thousand 
dollars, in fifty-dollar notes, which I have brought with 
me, if you will take your departure within an hour. I 
will repeat this sum every six months, so long as you 
may need it,” exclaimed Geraldine, drawing a port- 
monnaie from her pocket, and beginning to count the 
notes it contained. 


14 ^ 


THE REJECTED RRIDE. 


Gertrude’s pure, pale face flushed, yet she controlled 
herself, and spoke gently : 

“Miss Fitzgerald, put up your money. It seems 
strange that you should permit yourself to offer me 
such an affront, or that you should not know that in no 
case could I touch it. For the rest, I repeat that I will 
refer this proposition to my husband,' and be guided by 
his will, as I have been from the moment he made me 
his wife.” 

“ Viper ! I see your art !” fiercely exclaimed Ger- 
aldine. “ You know that Gerald Fitzgerald will never 
put you away, however much it may blast his life to 
retain you. In his Quixotic sense of honor he would 
even think it wrong to do so.” 

“ Then, Miss Fitzgerald, if he should think it wrong, 
it would be wrong ; for he is the best judge — the only 
judge,” said Gertrude, gravely. 

Geraldine made a gesture of fierce impatience, but 
controlled herself in a moment and said : 

“ Well, granted for argument’s sake that it might seem 
wrong in him to repudiate* you now, yet, still, in your 
case, it would be right, noble, heroic in you to withdraw 
yourself from him. Women, pure-minded, self-sacri- 
ficing women, situated as you are, have done such 
things before ! Devoted wives, knowing themselves 
unloved, feeling themselves to be obstacles to their hus- 
bands’ welfare and happiness, have withdrawn into 
solitude and oblivion.” 

“ I have read and heard of such women, but I have 
never understood them. I could not be like them. I 
could not break my marriage vow by leaving the pro- 
tection of my husband without his knowledge and con- 
sent — no ! Not under any circumstances whatever.” 

Geraldine stamped her foot impulsively, but again 
governed herself, and continued : 


W.OUNDED. 


143 


** Know that this marriage of yours is not held sacred. 
In every point of view, you must see that it would be 
the only right and proper thing for you to withdraw 
yourself from Colonel Fitzgerald.” 

“I will refer the question to my husband, and be 
guided by his decision,” said Gertrude, firmly. 

Geraldine Fitzgerald sprang to her feet, her face 
livid with passion. 

“ So this is your game then, is it ?” she fiercely hissed, 
between her closed teeth. “ This is your game — to pro- 
fess a deep self-devotion that you do not mean to prac- 
tice ! To pretend to submit to Gerald Fitzgerald’s will 
while you hold him in the bonds of loveless, wicked, 
hateful marriage ! Oh, subtle deceiver ! Oh, plausible 
hypocrite ! I know you ! Know you now ! Know you 
now ! I knew you from the first ! But listen, minion,” she 
said, dropping her voice to its lowest, sternest tones and 
fixing her burning eyes fiercely upon those of Gertrude, 
“listen to me ! Your life with Gerald Fitzgerald will 
be a hell on earth so long as it lasts, for he will hate you 
as he hates Satan 1 He has already begun to hate you. 
You must see and feel that he has. /saw it in his de- 
meanor toward you during the stage-coach journey ! 
Your life with him will be a living death for as long as 
it shall last, but it shall not last long, for by my soul’s 
salvation I swear that I myself will end it, in one way 
or another !” 

And with this sinister threat, the furious young wom- 
an turned and left the room. 


/ 


144 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XII. 

HEALED. 

Love was to her impassioned soul, 

Not as with others, a mere part 
Of its existence, but the whole — 

The very life-breath of her heart. — Moore, 

As soon as her fierce tormentor had departed and left 
her alone, the firmness which Gertrude had kept up so 
long, at such a cost to her nervous system, suddenly 
"broke down, and she bowed her face upon her hands 
and wept bitterly. 

While weeping she examined her heart without mercy. 

Had she been too hasty in accepting the marriage 
offer of Gerald Fitzgerald ? Was she selfish in resolv- 
ing to hold her position as his wife ? Would her per- 
sistence in doing so really destroy his happiness and 
ruin his prospects ? Would he really come to hate and 
scorn her as an ignominious obstacle to his happiness 
and prosperity ? 

To all these questions she could answer nothing — she 
could only weep. Garaldine had utterly confused and 
bewildered her mind upon all these points. 

But had he gone and left her forever, without a word 
of adieu or explanation, as Geraldine had assured her ? 

No, she felt certain that he had not. Whatever might 
be the cause of his mysterious absence and strange con- 
duct, it could be nothing that could reflect upon his 
honor. He would return to her in good time, whether 
her society afforded him happiness or gave him misery. 

Did she regret her strange marriage with Gerald 
Fitzgerald ? 

No, no, no ! Come what might in the future, she felt 


HEALED. 


145 


sure that she never could regret the act that made her 
his wife. 

Would she be willing to leave him ? 

Never ! For though she would consent to do so if he 
wished it, and in loyal obedience to his will, she could 
never be willing to leave him. Life with her worshiped 
husband, under any circumstances, would be the hap- 
piest life she could lead. If she might only be permitted 
to live with him, see him, hear him, even though she 
knew herself to be unloved, she would be far happier 
than she had ever been before he married her, or could 
ever be should he send her from him. Upon these 
questions she could have no doubt. 

Besides, a still small voice ” from the depths of her 
spirit made itself heard through all the turmoil of her 
bosom, whispering that this man who had taken her to 
wife, and whom she loved with all her being, was in- 
deed and in truth her husband for time and eternity, 
and that some day he would know her and love her per- 
fectly. 

With these whisperings in the spirit, the heavy storm 
of trouble in her bosom subsided, her tears ceased, her 
sobs became soften 

While she sat thus, she felt a pair of caressing hands 
laid around her bowed shoulders. 

She looked up in surprise, and saw Gerald Fitzgerald 
standing beside her, bending over her. 

‘‘ Why, what is the matter, my poor little girl ? You 
have been crying,” he said, in a gentle tone. 

“Oh, Gerald, oh, Gerald !” she said, with a little sob. 

“ Why, what is the matter ?” he inquired, seating him- 
self beside her and taking her hand. 

His kindness made her weep again. 

“ Is it because you have been left alone here ?” he 
asked, 


146 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Oh, no, no, not that," she answered, drying her tears 
and trying to compose herself. 

“ No, of course ; for you must have got my note of 
explanation." 

“ I got no note or message, but I know you must have 
been called away suddenly, and that you would return 
as soon as you could. And I was not afraid, for I knew 
I should be safe in any place where you had left me," 
she answered, smiling through her tears, for his kind- 
ness made her very happy. 

“ You dear, trusting child ! How different from — ^but 
no matter ! You did not get any note of explanation 
you say, Gertrude ? That must have been from gross 
neglect on the part of the people down-stairs. I must 
see to them. You were not frightened or distressed at 
being left alone through the night, you tell me. What, 
then, was it that grieved you, my child ?" he inquired, 
tenderly smoothing her dark hair away from her fore- 
head. 

Oh, Gerald, Miss Fitzgerald was here this morning !" 
she whispered. 

“ Geraldine ! Good Heaven !" 

Gertrude shuddered, as much at his look as at ner 
own recollections. 

“ Why did she come ? What did she want ? What 
did she say ?" 

Now Gertrude did not mean to acccuse Miss Fitz- 
gerald, nor to “ make mischief" between Gerald and his 
cousin. But it never entered her loyal heart to keep a 
secret from the husband she loved so truly. 

“ What did she say ?" repeated Colonel Fitzgerald, 
shortly. 

‘‘ Oh, Gerald, first of all, she told me that you had left 
me forever, that I should never see you again.” 

“You did not believe that ?" 


HEALED. 


i4r 

Oh, no, not for an instant.” 

“ How could she have stooped to such a base false- 
hood ? She must have been insane !” 

“ I do not think she meant to tell a falsehood. I do 
not think she would do that,” said Gertrude, generously. 

“What do you mean, child, by such strange talk?” 
demanded Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ I mean that she intended to make her words true. 
She intended that I should never see you again.” 

“ By what method did she expect to bring that to 
pass, I wonder? Tell me, if you know, child? And 
don’t look so distressed.” 

“ She told me, in effect, that you had married me 
during a transient fit of madness ; that you bitterly 
repented the marriage ; that it was considered a sacri- 
legious union ; that it would ruin your happiness and 
blast your prospects ; that if I loved you and cared for 
your honor and welfare, I ought to steal away and hide 
myself where you could never find me, so that after a 
proper time, you might procure a legal dissolution of 
what she called your unholy bonds. She said if I did 
not do so, you would grow to loathe and despise me as 
an obstacle in your path of life.” 

“ And did you believe all that to be true ?” 

“ I did not know. I was so confused and distressed 
that I could, not think. It was all I could do to keep 
from crying,” sighed Gertrude. 

“ How did you answer her ?” 

“ I said, of course, that I could not for a moment 
think of such an act as to leave your protection without 
your knowledge and consent.” 

“ What said she to that ?” 

“ She lost patience — ” 

“ No, my dear, she did not. She never had the least 
patience to lose !” exclaimed Fitzgerald. 


148 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Well, then, she showed /w-patience ; but still urged 
me to follow her counsel.” 

And then ?” 

“ Finally, I told her that I would refer the whole mat- 
ter to my husband, and be ruled by his will.” 

“ Ha ! Ha ! Ha !” laughed Gerald Fitzgerald. 

Gertrude gazed at him in bewilderment. That this 
grave and stately man should break into such mirth at 
such a time was incomprehensible to her; besides, she 
had never heard him laugh before. 

He took her little hand and kissed it, saying : 

“ My little girl, I had no idea that you were so wise.” 

“ Was it wise ? I thought I was only dutiful,” mur- 
mured Gertrude. 

“ Why, little one, if, instead of being the simple, inno- 
cent child that you are, you had been the deepest diplo- 
mat that ever confounded the councils of a nation, you 
could not have answered Miss Fitzgerald better. What 
next ?” 

“ She was very angry, and she hurried away, saying 
that she would find some means to break this unholy 
marriage.” 

“ She is mad, Gertrude, simply mad. Well, she went 
away. And as soon as she was gone, you indulged in 
what women call ‘ a good cry,’ ” 

“Yes, Gerald, I could not help it.” 

“ But you should not have cried after that last stroke 
of yours ! You unhorsed your antagonist by that, and 
came off victor. Now, Gertrude, you have only given 
me the ‘ heads ’ of your interview with Miss Fitzgerald. 
I want you to begin and give me a regular circum- 
stantial detail of all she said and did from the moment 
of her entrance into this room until the moment of her 
departure from it. I have a particular reason for wish- 
ing to know.” 


HEALED. 


149 


Gertrude gave him the story vas he asked for it. 

He sat in deep thought for a while and, then, nodding 
grimly several times, he said : 

“ She referred to my manner during our journey to- 
gether in the stage-coach ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That was the most diplomatic thing she could have 
done ; for I fear I behaved like a bear on that occasion, 
my little True.” 

“ Oh, no, no, you were only thoughtful and abstracted. 
I know that now, Gerald, though I did not know it then.” 

“ Ah, my child, it was a trying position to hold for two 
days and nights continuously,” sighed Fitzgerald. 

“ Oh, indeed, I know it,” assented Gertrude. 

“ Yes, wretch that I was, I must have wounded you, 
my little dove,” muttered Gerald Fitzgerald, to himself. 

Gertrude did not catch his self-accusing words, or she 
would surely have set them aside. 

Silence fell between the pair for a few moments. It 
was broken by the soft, voice of Gertrude. 

“ Gerald, I must say something.” 

“ Well, dear ?” 

“ Oh, Gerald, if it be indeed true, what your cousin 
said — if our marriage is held to be sacrilegious ; if I am 
to be an obstacle to your happiness and prosperity ; if 
you wish me to depart, Gerald, send me away. I am 
willing to go,” she said, with an effort to be firm ; but 
he could hear the half-suppressed sob in her voice. 

He put his arm around her waist, and drew her head 
upon his bosom, while he questioned her. 

Are you sorry you married me, Gertrude ?” 

Oh, no, no, no ! I am glad ; I have been so happy 
even in this little while. I will always have it to re- 
member,” she earnestly replied. 

Then why do you wish to leave me ?” 


150 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Oh, I do not ! I do not ! I do not, unless you want 
me to go. I only think of you^ Gerald. I know it would 
be so wrong for a little thing like I am to spoil the life 
of a man like you. So, if you wish me to depart, I am 
willing to go.” 

“ My poor child ! Where could you go ? What would 
be your fate — your future ?” 

“ Oh, I do not know ! That is nothing now. I could 
think of that afterward. I only want to see your life go 
on happily, prosperously, gloriously to its earthly end.” 

“ And then, Gertrude — you ?” 

“ I ? Well, perhaps, up there, in that higher life — ” 

“ My little angel,” he said, tenderly taking her deli- 
cate face between his hands and gazing wistfully into 
her soft, brown eyes — “ I am all unworthy of your pure 
devotion ; but I am not so evil as to take you at your 
word. Nor shall you again be tortured as you have 
been this morning. I will protect you from a repeti- 
tion of that assault as well as from all other injuries. 
You are my honored wife, and nothing but death shall 
part us.” 

Her face changed and grew radiant through her 
tears, glorious as a sunburst through showers. 

He stooped and kissed that beautiful and beaming 
face, gazed on it with a smile for an instant, and then 
drew her close to his heart. 

“ Ah, now I think — ” murmured Gertrude. 

“ What do you think, darling ?” 

I think — oh, indeed I do, that some day you will 
really know me and love me. I am so young now and 
so little. I am not what I shall grow to be by your 
side. When I shall be, you will love me,” she mur- 
mured, blushing intensely at her own words. 

“ I love you now^ my little angel ! How can I help 
it ? I love you now.” 


Geraldine’s madness. 


151 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Geraldine's madness. 

’Twas grief no more, or grief and rage were one 
Within her soul ; at last ’twas rage, alone ; 

Which burning upwards in succession dries 
The tears that stood, unfallen, in her eyes. 

Her color changed, her face was not the same. 

And hollow groans from her deep spirit came ; 

She started up ; convulsive rage possessed 

Her trembling limbs, and heav’d her laboring breast. 

— Dryden. 

Colonel Fitzgerald was not far wrong, when he de- 
clared that Geraldine was mad. There are many vari- 
eties and degrees of madness, and Geraldine, sane on 
all other subjects, was certainly mad on one. 

That is the only palliation that can be offered for her 
indelicate, undignified and unwomanly conduct dis- 
played in her interview with Gerald Fitzgerald’s child- 
wife, Gertrude. 

Her monomania cannot be wondered at when her cir- 
cumstances are considered. 

We have seen that when an orphan of five years old 
she had been betrothed to her handsome cousin, Gerald, 
who was even then the first object of her baby-love ; 
and how, from the time of that betrothal, she had been 
placed in a convent to be educated and brought up in 
the thought that her engagement was as sacred as a 
marriage, and only to be broken by death or sin. She 
had grown up in the love and worship of her affianced 
husband, every visit he made her deepening her devo- 
tion to him. 

And with all her faults, or rather with her one mon- 
ster fault of morbid jealousy, conjoined to violent 


152 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 


temper, Geraldine had the one great virtue of a perfect 
fidelity. 

When her jealousy was awakened, her temper aroused 
— in a word, when the fiend took possession of her — she 
might abuse, insult and outrage her betrothed past all 
forgiveness ; but when she came to herself, she was 
ready to confess the wrong in deep sorrow and contri- 
tion, and sue for pardon. 

She had always found ready forgiveness and sweet 
reconciliation, and she always confidently expected to 
find them with him ; for was she not his own ? Could 
anything part them ? 

She could not understand that her lover, however for- 
bearing and faithful he might be, must at length tire of 
these scenes ; that they would be repeated once too 
often ; that in common self-respect the man must at 
length break the bonds that bound him to the beautiful 
fury, or rather accept the insulting dismissal that she in 
her savage rage hurled at him. 

Therefore, when the announcement that Gerald Fitz- 
gerald had taken the desperate remedy by marrying 
Gertrude H addon, to raise an impassable barrier be- 
tween himself and his beautiful tormentor, was made, 
the news was a thunderbolt to her, nearly overwhelm- 
ing her soul with amazement, sorrow and despair. 

When she recovered from the first great shock, and 
reviewed the circumstances with what calmness she 
could command, she looked upon the marriage of her 
own long-betrothed husband with another woman as a 
shameful crime, which could only have been committed 
under a paroxysm of temporary insanity. 

Firmly believing in all the principles in which she had 
been educated, and holding her betrothal with Gerald 
Fitzgerald to be a sacred bond, indissoluble except 
through sin or death, she considered his marriage with 


Geraldine’s madness. 


153 


Gertrude Haddon a sacrilegious union, fraught with per- 
dition to them, as well as with misery to herself — a 
union, therefore, which it would be not only meritorious 
but obligatory to break by any legal means whatever. 

And she resolved to shrink from no means of break- 
ing it. 

One of those strange accidents by which the devil 
tempts to their destruction those already tempted to sin 
by their own evil passions afforded Geraldine the oppor- 
tunity she longed for of making her first desperate at- 
tempt to sunder the newly-wedded pair. 

On the evening of their arrival in Washington city, 
Geraldine and her party had not at once left the hotel, 
as Gertrude supposed from their non-appearance in the 
office. 

They had, on leaving the stage-coach, gone directly 
up to the public parlor, where the two ladies waited an 
hour, wffiile Father Dubarry walked out to see a Catholic 
widow who was the proprietress of a very select private 
boarding-house and £o ascertain from her whether she 
could accommodate his party for a few days. 

It was while Geraldine and her companion waited in 
the shadow of the half-lighted room, that she saw Gerald 
Fitzgerald enter hastily, accompanied by a young lady 
dressed in mourning and closely vailed. 

He did not see his late fellow-travellers, who were the 
only occupants of the room, and who, from their dark 
dresses and their position in a shaded corner of the win- 
dow, were invisible, and so he naturally supposed the 
parlor to be vacant. 

He tenderly placed his companion in a chair, saying : 

“ Sit down here, Imogene, and rest and calm yourself 
Of course, I will go with you, but I must first step to the 
reading-room and write a note to let my wife know that 
she need not expect me home before to-morrow.” 


154 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Oh, for the love of mercy,” pleaded the vailed girl, 
clasping a pair of small, white, ungloved hands, “ for the 
love of mercy, do not stop for that ! One minute of de- 
lay may make us too late ! Oh, hasten, hasten !” 

And in her eagerness she threw aside her vail, reveal- 
ing a face of marble whiteness and of great beauty, not- 
withstanding the visible ravages of some awful sorrow. 

He paused for an instant, and then said : 

“ Very well, my poor girl, I will go with you this mo- 
ment. I can find a messenger and send a message or a 
note, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, I will find one myself ; only come at 
once ! Come quickly !” she panted, in her eagerness. 

Gerald Fitzgerald took her quivering white hand in 
his, raised her to her feet, and supported her from the 
room. 

“ That was rather a strange scene,” said Geraldine, 
who had not lost any part of the short interview, but 
whose keen ears had caught every word and tone, whose 
piercing eyes had seen every motion and gesture of 
Gerald Fitzgerald and his mysterious visitor ; for those 
two did not sit in the shadow, as Miss Fitzgerald and 
her companion did. 

“I say that was a strange scene,” repeated Geraldine, 
perceiving that her companion did not answer, and anx- 
ious to know how much, or how little, the old lady had 
heard or seen of the interview. 

“ Eh ? What scene, my dear ? I knew that some 
people had come in, but I am too near-sighted and hard 
of hearing to know what they were about,” said Miss 
Dubarry. 

“ Oh, it was a young woman, who seems to have 
come here after a gentleman and carried him off with 
her,” said Geraldine, evasively. 

“ Hoot, toot ! A very improper proceeding ! This 


Geraldine’s madness. 


155 


comes of waiting in the public parlor of a hotel. But 
here is my brother, and I am very glad of it,” said Miss 
Dubarry. 

And in fact Father Dubarry entered -at the same mo- 
ment. He told them, in answer to their anxious inquiries, 
that Mrs. St. J ames would receive them into her house 
with great pleasure, having a fine suite of rooms on the 
first floor now vacant, which she could place at their 
disposal immediately. He added that the carriage was 
at the door to convey them to their new lodgings. 

Geraldine said nothing of the strange conversation 
she had overheard. She scarcely even wondered what 
it meant, for her mind was completely occupied with 
planning how it might be turned to her advantage and 
made to serve the one purpose of her life. First of all, 
she resolved to seize the opportunity of Gerald’s ab- 
sence from his little wife to go to Gertrude and work 
upon her heart, so as to produce an estrangement, or a 
total separation between the pair. 

These thoughts so occupied her mind that she con- 
tinued silent during the short drive to Mrs. St. James’s 
boarding-house, where she and her friends were most 
cordially welcomed and immediately shown to their 
apartments. 

Here, after seeing the two ladies settled. Father 
Dubarry bade them good night and set out for George- 
town College, where he intended to seek a lodging 
among his brethren of the priesthood. 

The next morning, after an early breakfast, Geraldine 
ordered a carriage and drove to Fuller’s, resolved, if 
possible, to see Gertrude and induce her to fly before 
the return of Colonel Fitzgerald. When she arrived at 
the hotel she alighted at the “ladies’ entrance,” and 
giving her card to the porter who opened the door, she 
asked if Mrs, Fitzgerald was in, 


156 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Oh, how it galled her pride to be compelled even 
once to give this title to Gerald’s child- wife ! 

The man answered, however, that he believed the 
lady was in, and* he called the waiter whose duty it was 
to take up cards. 

“ You need not take up my card, however. If the 
lady is in, just show me up to her room. I am a near 
relative,” said Miss Fitzgerald, with the easy assurance 
that enforced obedience. 

The waiter bowed to the visitor and politely re- 
quested her to follow him. 

Miss Fitzgerald complied. 

As they passed the door of the office, however, a 
young man came out with a letter in his hand and 
delivered it to the waiter, saying sharply : 

“ Carry this letter up to No. 202. It ought to have 
been delivered last night. It was unpardonable neg- 
lect.” 

“ I wasn’t on duty late last night, sir,” answered the 
waiter, apologetically, as he took the letter and 
passed on. 

When they got near the door marked 202, Miss Fitz- 
gerald inquired : 

“ Is not that note for Mrs. Fitzgerald ?” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ Give it to me, then. I am going to call on her and 
will take it in. My name is also Fitzgerald. There, 
you need not announce me ; just open the door,” said 
Geraldine, with easy confidence, secretly rejoicing in 
What she called the happy chain of events that had 
taken Gerald Fitzgerald suddenly, unexpectedly and 
without a word of adieu away from his young wife, leav- 
ing her alone in a strange hotel ; that had made her^ 
Geraldine, a witness to his departure ; that had de- 
tained his note of explanation ; and that, finally, had 


Geraldine’s madness. 


157 


delivered the note into her hands ; for the unsuspicious 
waiter, without a moment’s hesitation, gave her the 
note and opened the door for her to pass in. 

“ How easy to persuade the girl now,” thought Ger- 
aldine, “ that Gerald has left her forever — that she will 
never see him more. And if she will listen to reason, 
she herself will make my words good. She will never 
see him more.” 

With that interview and its total failure, through the 
young wife’s simple fidelity, we are already acquainted. 

But this must be said, in justice to the mad Geraldine, 
that all the arguments she had urged upon Gertrude to 
induce her to leave Gerald had been inspired no more 
by her own desperate passions than by her deepest con- 
viction of right. 

After leaving Gertrude that morning, she returned to 
her boarding-house in a state of mind bordering on in- 
sanity. Here, waiting her in the parlor, she found 
Father Dubarry. 

In her desperation, she told him where she had been and 
what she had done. The good priest, though disapprov- 
ing the marriage as strongly as she did, was, neverthe- 
less, deeply shocked. 

“ I charge you,” he said, with earnest sorrow, “ I 
charge you as the representative of an honored race, 
and as a faithful and obedient daughter of the church, 
to think no more of Gerald Fitzgerald and his com- 
panion. Leave them to the retribution of Providence. 
Turn you to other thoughts.” 

“ But, Father Dubarry, I shall go mad !” 

“Nay, nay. Listen to me. Retire for a few weeks 
into some religious house. There by prayer and pious 
meditation compose your mind and elevate your soul. 
It may so happen that you may be called to the sacred 
secluded life of the cloister,” said the priest, softly. 


158 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


‘‘‘That I may eventually become a nun ?” murmured 
Geraldine. 

The priest bowed. 

She did not dare to stamp her foot at her pastor, so 
she turned quickly away to conceal the look of bitter 
wrath and scorn that disfigured her beautiful face. 

“ You will think of this, my daughter ?” said the priest. 

“Yes, I will think of it,” answered Geraldine, and for 
her life she could not have forborne to lay a contempt- 
uous emphasis on the word. 

The priest arose, saying that he had to attend his sis- 
ter on her preliminary visit to the Gon vent of the Visi- 
tation. 

“ I hope Miss Dubarry will not take up her abode at 
the convent, while I remain here,” said Geraldine. - 

“ Certainly not,” replied Father Dubarry. “ She will 
stay with you as long as you may need her protection.” 
And he bowed and left the room. 

Geraldine drew her comfortable lounging-chair around 
toward the fire, put . her feet upon a hassock, leaned back 
and settled herself for reflection. 

“ ‘ Go, counselor ! 

Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain,’” 

she murmured to herself, as she thought of the good 
priest and his repugnant advice, and resolved then and 
there to be guided only by her own fierce passion and 
perverted will. 

Geraldine’s devotion to her church and obedience to 
her spiritual director were after all very much like those 
of many other people, perfect and absolute so long as 
she could turn them to her own selfish purposes, and no 
longer. 

She had scarcely time to form her fatal resolution be- 
fore there cnme a rap at the door, 


Geraldine’s madness. 


159 


“ Come in,” she said, wondering who could have any 
business with her in a strange city to which she had 
only arrived on the night before. 

A servant entered with a card upon a small waiter. 
She took it up and read : 


Madame La Baronne De La Va'Uette. 


Her surprise increased, as she answered : 

This cannot be for me. I know no lady of that 
name.” 

“ But yes. Pardon me. I think you do, ma belle” 
said a sweet, bird-like voice at the door, as a beautiful 
little blonde fairy fluttered into the room. 

“ Veronique ! Is it possible !” exclaimed Geraldine, 
eagerly rising and advancing to welcome the visitor, 
whom she now recognized as her favorite schoolmate 
in the convent of the Benedictine nuns at Paris, where 
they had both been educated and where they had shared 
one room for a dozen years. 

“ So you ‘ did not know any lady of that name ?’ You 
did not remember Veronique de 1 ’Ande under her new 
name ?” gleefully laughed the little lady when the long- 
severed friends had joined hands and lips in a warm 
embrace. ^ 

“ I did not even know that yoii were married, dear 
Veronique,” said Geraldine, as she placed her visitor in 
her own easy-chair and kissed her again. 

“ Ah ! Then you did not get my letter ; and I won- 
dered why you did not answer it! Mais^hdas ! You 
are in mourning ! I am grieved,” said the baroness. 


160 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


For my uncle and guardian. He was an aged man,” 
said Geraldine, as if throwing off useless condolence. 

“ Ah, yes ! I see ! Mais Monsieur le fianc^f The 
brave and handsome Colonel Feetzegerald ?” rattled on 
the little lady. 

“ Veronique, it has come to nothing between us. He 
is wedded to another woman,” replied Geraldine, with 
an assumed air of supreme indifference. 

Madame la Baronne shrugged her pretty shoulders. 

“ Oh, well,” she said. “ You do such things in your 
country. With us it is unknown to break a betrothal.” 

“ This is a land of liberty, you know. But tell me 
about your own marriage,” said Geraldine, anxious to 
change the subject of conversation. “Was it a love- 
match ?” 

“ A love-match ? What is a love-match ? I know not 
yet all your Engleese,” complained the little beauty, 
shrugging her shoulders. 

“ Never mind ; tell me all about your marriage.” 

hie7i ! What would you have ? Monsieur le 
Baron saw me at my first ball at the Tuileries, in June. 
The next day he attended Monsieur mon pere^ and 
these two arranged the marriage. On the third day 
Madame ma mere told me that Mo7isieur le Baron de La 
Vallette was to be my husband and in the afternoon 
she presented him to me. The next month we were 
married. Monsieur le Baron's presents were magnifi- 
cent. There was an India cashmere shawl that had 
been made for an empress, and there was a set of 
emeralds — ” 

Here the voluble little lady launched out in a full 
description of India shawls, jewels, velvets, silks, etc. 

But, ma chlre, tell me how it is that I have the hap- 
piness to meet you here in Washington ?” inquired 
Geraldine, who had grown weary of the catalogue. 


Geraldine’s madness. 


ICl 


‘‘ Oh, well, Monsieur le Baron was sent out as bearer 
of dispatches to our minister here in Washington. We 
left Paris on the ist of August, arrived in Washington 
on the 23d. So, you perceive, we have been here a 
month. Mo 7 isieur took a furnished house near La 
Fayette Place, but only for a short time. We return 
in October. I look in the papers this morning. I see 
your name in the list of arrivals. I am here. Voila tout !” 

“And you are welcome! I am so rejoiced to meet 
you, dear Veronique !” said Geraldine, kissing her vis- 
itor with effusion. 

Other explanations followed. 

Geraldine told her friend that she had reached her 
majority about three weeks previously ; that she was 
now mistress of her own fortune, with liberty to go 
where she would and do what she would. 

Veronique expressed much surprise at this. 

“ It is never so in France,” she said. “ A deinuiselleis 
never free until she is married.” 

“ I am sure she is not free theyi^ even here,” sneered 
Miss Fitzgerald. 

The little baroness lifted her eyebrows, but said noth- 
ing in reply. 

“ And now, perhaps, you will wonder to see me in 
Washington,” said Geraldine. 

“ Eh bien ! They say it is not the season until your 
— parliament — ” 

“ Our Congress,” amended Geraldine. 

“ Oui^ inerci^ your Congress, in December, convenes.” 

“ Well, I did not come here for the season. I came up 
with a religieuse^ who is about to enter the Convent of 
the Visitation in Georgetown, in order to become a nun.” 

Veronique shrugged her shoulders. 

got enough of the convent in our school-days,” 
she said. “ Did we not, my dear ?” 


162 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Yes,” said Geraldine, forcing a smile. 

“ Very well. You are not going into the convent with 
the holy madame and you are not going back to the coun- 
try. You are free to go where you will. Is this not ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

'‘'"Bon ! You will come to me. I am ennuy^e in this 
dull city. You will come home with me, and stay with 
me until we return to France. And we will talk of the 
convent and the nuns and our school-days in Paris. 
That will be happy. You will not say no. You will say 
yes. You will say yes. You are free, you know. You 
will say yes. Say yes !” eagerly implored the impetuous 
little lady, as she seized both Geraldine’s hands and 
gazed into her eyes. 

“Yes, then. Yes, I will go to you,” promptly replied 
Miss Fitzgerald, who quickly made up her mind that 
this would be the most convenient and agreeable ar- 
rangement that she could make. 

“Angel !” exclaimed the enthusiastic little lady, kissing 
her with effusion. “ And it may be that I can persuade 
you to accompany us to France for a visit. You are 
free, you know. And, ah, how divine that would be ! 
But you will come with me nozv to La Fayette Place ? 
Now, now, now !” 

“ Not this moment, dear Veronique. I must not be so 
unkind as to leave the old friends of my'party so sud- 
denly. But I will go to you to-morrow. Miss Dubarry 
will probably wish to enter her convent as soon as pos- 
sible, and she will be glad to .have me taken off her 
hands so readily.” 

“ Bon ! I will come and fetch you to-morrow.” 

“Thanks, dear Veronique.” 

“ At what hour shall I attend you, mademoiselle f'* 

“ Will two in the afternoon be convenient ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 


Geraldine’s madness. 


163 


“ Thanks. At two, then.” 

I will be here at the hour, to take you home to us. 
And, ah, perhaps you will go back to France with me ?” 
pleaded Veronique, looking long and wistfully into the 
eyes of her friend. 

“Perhaps I may. It is quite possible,” said Ger- 
aldine, smiling. 

“ Oh, you angel, how good you are !” exclaimed the 
eager little lady, kissing her with enthusiasm, as she 
arose to take leave. 

When Geraldine was left alone, she wheeled her chair 
up to a table where writing materials lay ready for use, 
and she wrote a hasty letter to Mrs. Doy Fitzgerald, en- 
closing one to Desiree Labbie, requesting that the 
French maid should be sent to Washington, charged 
with all the wardrobe left behind by Miss Fitzgerald. 
Then she rang for a waiter and dispatched her letter to 
the post-office. 

“ Yes,” she said, as she reseated herself in her easy- 
chair, “ I will go to Madame de La Vallette’s and try to 
amuse myself as well as I can in new scenes, lest I grow 
melancholy mad over all this. Aferward, perhaps I 
may accept her invitation and go with her to Europe. 
That depends. If Gerald Fitzgerald, my perjured be- 
trothed, should remain here, I shall stay as long as he 
does. If he should go abroad, I shall accept Veronique’s 
invitation and go also.” 

When the priest and his sister returned to the house. 
Father Dubarry took occasion, while the old lady was 
gone to her room to lay off her wraps, of saying to Ger- 
aldine : 

“ My child, I am sorry to inconvenience you in any 
way, especially at a time like this, but the truth is that 
my sister Mary has arranged with the mother superior 
of the convent to enter upon her postulate to-morrow. 


164 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Now, I dislike to hurry you back to the country ; but 
you would scarcely care to remain here without female 
protection ?” 

‘‘ Certainly not, Father Dubarry. But set your mind 
at rest, good father, for I have just had a visit from a 
married schoolmate of mine — Madame la Baronne de 
La Vallette, who is temporarily living in Washington — ^ 
and — ” 

“ Oh, yes, the wife of the French envoy who came 
over with dispatches last month,” said the priest. 

“ The same ; and she has invited and besought me to 
come and stay with her, and help her to endure exist- 
ence at this dull season.” 

“ And you have accepted the invitation ?” 

“ Yes, I am going, as soon as Miss Dubarry enters her 
convent.” 

“ My dear daughter,” said the priest, “ have you well 
considered this step ?” 

“Yes, father. This lady to whom I shall go is, as I 
told you, an old schoolmate,, educated with me at the 
same convent, where we spent more than a dozen years 
together. She is a dutiful daughter of the church, too, 
as you may judge. Father Dubarry, I would like you 
to see Veronique. You will not leave town till the day 
after to-morrow, I presume ?” 

“ No, my child.” 

“ Then I hope, after you shall have taken Miss Du- 
barry to the convent to-morrow, you will return here, 
that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to 
Madame de La Vallette.” 

“ Thanks. I should be pleased to know the lady with 
whom you are to spend so much time.” 

“And now I must write a note to Veronique to tell 
her about my reverend father, and to ask her not to 
come for me until five in the afternoon. I would not fix 


Geraldine’s mAdness. 


165 


this meeting while she was here, because I did not know 
your own or Miss Dubarry’s arrangements.” 

‘‘Very well, my dear child. I will leave you again, 
for I have to call on my old friend at St. Patrick’s to- 
day,” said Father Dubarry, as he once more arose and 
left his prot^g^e. 

The next day the good priest took his sister to the 
Convent of the Visitation, to enter upon the postulate. 
He returned to Geraldine about half-past four and, after 
a slight luncheon, waited with her to see Madame de La 
Vallette. 

The sprightly young French woman arrived about 
five o’clock, was shown up into the private parlor of 
Miss Fitzgerald, whom she warmly embraced, and was 
then introduced to Father Dubarry, whom she greeted 
with a reverential earnestness. 

“ I fear that I may have inconvenienced you, madame, 
by appointing so late an hour for our meeting,” said 
Geraldine. 

“ Oh, no ! I have no engagements. Nothing to do, 
indeed, from morning till night. No visiting, for there 
seems to be no one in town. No driving, for there is 
nowhere to go. No shopping, for who would shop here, 
after Paris. No, ma chere^ I had nothing to do but to 
come for you, and I wish I had that to do all the time !” 
said madame, with a little shrug and laugh. 

Then turning to Father Dubarry, she said : 

“ I am sorry to hear that you leave to-morrow, mon 
pere 

“Yes, madame,” said the priest. 

“ Let me hope, however, that your engagements will 
not prevent you from giving us the happiness of your 
company at dinner this evening,” said the little lady, 
courteously. 

“ Madame is very kind, and I thank her ; but I am 


166 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


bound to Spend the remainder . of my time with my 
brethren at the Georgetown College. Madam will ex- 
cuse me,” said Father Dubarry. 

“Very unwillingly, mon p}re ! But give us your 
blessing, then, and let us go,” said the gay little lady. 

The priest gave them both his benediction and so 
dismissed them. 

And Geraldine Fitzgerald went home as the guest of 
Veronique, Madame la Barojine de La Vallette. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SOME BRIGHT DAYS FOR GERTRUDE. 

Scarcely she knew that she was good or fair, 

Or wise beyond what other women are. 

Or (which is better) knew, but never durst compare. 

— Dryden, 


If seriously I may convey my thoughts 
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke 
With one that in her sex, her years, profession. 
Wisdom and constancy, hath amazed me more 
Than I dare blame my weakness. — Shakespeare. 

The mutual explanation that had been to Gerald Fitz- 
gerald only a painful discovery of Geraldine’s selfish- 
ness and a compassionate recognition of Gertrude’s, 
devotion was to the young wife as the opening of the 
gates of heaven. 

Her husband had told her that he loved her, and she 
believed him utterly and was happier than words could 
express. 

He told the truth ; but there are various manifesta- 
tions of love, though only one love. Gerald Fitzgerald 
pitied, admired and loved Gertrude, with a tender, 
appreciative, paternal affection. 


SOME BRIGHT DAYS FOR GERTRUDE. 


167 


Gertrude loved, honored and worshiped Gerald with 
her whole being, giving her entire self to him. That 
was the difference in their love. 

“ Well, now, dear,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, after they 
had talked some time longer, “ I think we will have 
breakfast. It must be near eleven o’clock. These are 
not like our wholesome country hours. What can we 
have been thinking of ?” 

“ I told the waiter to set the table, but not to serve 
the breakfast until your return,” answered Gertrude. 

“You were so sure I should be back. You did not 
think I had gone to swell the number of mysterious 
disappearances, Gertrude ?” said Colonel Fitzgerald, 
smiling as he arose and pulled the bell-rope. 

“ I knew you would return,” quietly answered the 
young wife. 

A waiter answered the bell. 

“ Breakfast, immediately,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“Yes, sir. What shall I bring ?” inquired the man, 
with a duck, that he meant for a bow. 

“ Stay,” said the colonel, taking a pencil and a leaf 
from his tablets. He wrote and passed the leaf to his 
wife, saying : “ Add anything you would like, dear.” 

Gertrude read it over, added one item and returned 
the page to her husband. 

“ There, there is our order. Be prompt now, my 
good fellow, and — listen ! Send to the livery-stable and 
have an open carriage at the door for us by twelve 
o’clock, do you hear ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; all right,” said the man, with a bow, as he 
retired. 

“ I mean to take you out to show you something of 
the city, my dear child,” he said, in explanation to Ger- 
trude. 

She smiled her thanks. 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Ifi8 

In due time the waiter entered the parlor with the 
breakfast-tray, arranged the various dishes upon the 
table, and then came to the chamber-door and knocked 
to say that breakfast was served. 

“ Come, Gertrude,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, rising. 

She got up and put her hand on his arm, and so they 
went into the parlor, and took their places at the table. 
The waiter remained in attendance. 

“ By the way !” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he received 
a cup of coffee from the waiter. “ After I left the hotel 
last night I sent back a letter addressed to Mrs. Fitz- 
gerald — this lady here. Do you know anything 
about it ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the man, after a little hesitation ; 
“ leastways, I think I do ; but I was not on duty last 
night when the letter came, having gone to bed ; so I 
hear the letter was sent up by a boy, who came back to 
the clerk’s counter saying as the door was locked and 
he couldn’t make any one hear.” 

“ How soundly I must have slept !” exclaimed Ger- 
trude. 

“Ah! You were quite worn out with fatigue, poor 
child,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Well ?” he asked, turning to the waiter. 

“ Well, sir, the clerk took the letter and put it in a 
pigeon-hole over his desk and said it could be delivered 
in the morning.” 

“.Then, why was it not delivered this morning?” 
inquired Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“Well, sir, I hope I didn’t do wrong; but a lady 
came here this morning, inquiring for Mrs. Fitzgerald, 
and asked to be shown up at once to her room. I was 
ordered to show the lady the way, and, at the same 
time, the clerk took that note and gave it to me, and 
said it ought to have been delivered last night and told 


SOME BRIGHT DAYS FOR GERTRUDE. 


169 


me to take it up. And I took it up, sir ; but when we 
got to the door, the lady, she said : ‘You need not wait. 
Give me that note. I can take it in.’ And she took it 
out of my hand, sir, and went in, and I thought it was 
all right. I hope there was no mistake, sir. And, I 
hope, no offense.” 

“ There is no offense,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, and 
the subject was dropped. 

“ Get your hat on, now, my dear, as soon as you can. 
The carriage will be at the door in a few minutes,” said 
Colonel Fitzgerald, as they arose from the tablq. 

Gertrude went into the bedroom and turned out the 
contents of the large valise that the thoughtful kindness 
of Patricia had sent after her. She found in it a black- 
silk walking-suit and a black-cloth jacket. She shook 
them out of their folds and put them on, finishing her 
toilet with fine white-linen collar and cuffs, neat straw 
hat with gray vail and a pair of fresh, gray gloves. 

When she passed out into the parlor she found Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald ready for her. 

They went down and entered the comfortable vehicle 
that was awaiting them. It was a large, open carriage, 
affording the young stranger a free view of the avenue. 

Certainly the edifices on each side were not, at that 
time, as compared with those of other cities, very impos- 
ing ; but to the inexperienced child from western Vir- 
ginia, who. had never seen any town larger than Wilde- 
ville, Washington was a wonderful city and Penn- 
sylvania Avenue a stately boulevard. 

Colonel Fitzgerald took her to the Capitol and 
through its grounds and its principal rooms, and he en- 
joyed the grave admiration with which she gazed upon 
what were, to her untrained mind, wonders of archi- 
tectural grandeur and artistic beauty. 

“You think all this so grand and beautiful, my little 


170 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Gertrude ? Ah ! Art with us is but in its infancy, my 
child. You should see the churches, palaces and gal- 
leries of the old world. It will be a rare delight for me 
to take you over Europe,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, 
kindly, as they stood together in the rotunda. 

“ Shall we go to Europe ?” inquired Gertrude. 

“ Yes, if you say so. I am at your orders for twelve 
months, my little lady. I have been a very hard- worked 
man in the army, my little Gertrude, for the last fifteen 
years: I have earned a year of holiday, and I mean to 
take it .with you. Where shall we go, little girl ? Shall 
we go back to the Summit and dream away the winter 
among our native mountains ? Shall we stay here in 
Washington and attend the sessions of Congress and of 
the Supreme Court, and show at the President’s recep- 
tions and at the Cabinet ministers’ parties, or shall we 
sail for Europe and spend the cold months in France 
and Italy, and the next summer in Switzerland and 
north Germany ? Come, what do you say ?” 

Gertrude raised her brown eyes in delight, surprise 
and some perplexity to his face. He had given her such 
a choice ! Either plan would be pleasant to her, since 
each promised the constant company of her husband. 
But how could she venture to take the responsibility of 
deciding ? Yet she knew he wished her to make the 
choice, and she thought that he preferred to spend his 
well-earned year of idleness in Europe. So, at length, 
she answered : 

“ If you please, Gerald, I would like to go to Europe.” 
And as soon as she had uttered these words, she felt 
that they really expressed her true preference. 

‘‘You are sure ?” asked Gerald. 

“ Oh, quite sure, indeed,” she replied. 

“Very well ; we will go. I shall write to New York 
and secure our passage in the next steamer.” 


SOME BRIGHT DAYS FOR GERTRUDE. 


in 


“ It is strange,” said Gertrude, musingly. 

“ What is strange, little girl ?’* 

This is. For, do you know, Gerald, that I should 
have been in Europe now, and should never have seen 
you, if dear grandfather had not passed away so soon as 
he did ?” 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed Gerald Fitzgerald, turning and 
looking at her in some surprise. 

Oh, yes. I meant to have told you about it, and I 
tried to do so several times, but always something pre- 
vented.” 

“ Sit down here, Gertrude, and tell me now,” he 
said. 

They both seated themselves on a bench opposite the 
historical painting of the “ Baptism of Pocahontas,” and 
Gertrude continued : 

“ You know, Gerald, that I am not grandfather’s real 
grandchild.” 

Yes, yes ; I have heard something of the sort. Never 
mind that, Gertrude,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, hastily. 

“ I only wanted to tell you that I have no real right to 
Haddon’s Ferry. I only hold Haddon’s Ferry for the 
rightful heiress, to give it up to her whenever she shall 
be found.” 

“ The rightful heiress, Gertrude ? Are you dreaming, 
child ? ‘Besides, dear, what has all this to do with that 
projected voyage to Europe cut short by your grand- 
father’s death ?” 

“ Everything, dear Gerald. I must explain. You 
have heard of my grandfather’s fatal marriage with 
Lilian Vale, who was the greatest beauty and richest 
heiress of her time, yet who chose of all her suitors to 
marry Gabriel Haddon, the ferryman, who had nothing 
but Nature’s patent of nobility to recommend him.” 

“ Yes, I have heard of that,” said ColoneL Fitzgerald, 


m 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


more impatiently than before, for he did not approve of 
such marriages. 

“Well, you know she was torn from him within a few 
months after her marriage by her guardian, who per- 
jured himself to represent her as a minor and so got her 
into his power again.” 

“ To the dishonor of his name. Yes, I have heard of 
that, also.” 

“ But what you have not heard — what even Gabriel 
Haddon had not heard up to the night of that guardian’s 
death, who on his death-bed confessed the whole fraud 
— was that, while Lilian Haddon was in the custody of 
her false and perjured guardian in London, a daughter 
was born of her marriage ; a daughter whose birth was 
concealed at the time, and so cunningly concealed that 
even her hapless and half-crazed mother did not know 
of her existence. When Gabriel Haddon heard this fact 
from the lips of the dying General Slaughter, he also 
received some statistics to guide him in the search for 
this missing daughter; who, it seems, had been aban- 
doned by her guardian and lost sight of for many years.” 

“ Good heavens, Gertrude !” exclaimed Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, “ I do not think you can estimate the greatness, 
the magnitude of the interests involved in what you tell 
me ! Was it to go in search of this lost daughter that 
you and your grandfather were going to Europe, my 
child ?” * . ■ 

“Yes,” murmured Gertrude, a little abashed at the 
earnestness of Gerald’s words. 

“ What statistics, what clue had he to the search ?” 

“ He had the address of the physician who kept the 
private hospital, where the young wife was boarded for 
several months previous and subsequent to the birth of 
her child, and also the address of the nurse to whose 
care the child was committed.” 


SOME BRIGHT DAYS FOR GERTRUDE. 


173 


“ Do you mean to say that this child was afterward 
abandoned by General Slaughter ?” 

“Yes ; it seems that he gave the nurse a very large 
sum of money with the child and afterward sent more, 
but concealed his real name and address from the wom- 
an, so that, when at last he grew tired of remitting 
money, he could not be annoyed by applications for it.” 

“ What could have been his motives for such dishon- 
orable and atrocious conduct ?” 

“ I think — revenge upon Gabriel Haddon, for what he 
termed the audacity of marrying Lily Vale.” 

“ And so the child was at length utterly abandoned ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And yet that child (that middle-aged woman, rather), 
if living, is the direct heiress, through her mother’s 
family, of Italia Fitzgerald and Alvan Vale, who in their 
day owned between them three-fourths of the manor 
lands in Wilde County. She is the direct heiress also of 
Hiram Slaughter and lastly of Gabriel Haddon, whose 
little ferry estate is destined to be worth as much, or 
more, than either of the single manors. Good heaven, 
Gertrude, the discovery of this heiress would cause a so- 
cial and financial earthquake in Wilde County ! Poor 
Geraldine ! Poor, proud Geraldine !” he murmured, to 
himself ; then, raising his voice a little, he inquired : 
“ Did your grandfather depute to any one the duty of 
seeking out this woman ?” 

“ No, dear Gerald. It was only a few days before his 
sudden death that he heard of her existence ; then he 
resolved to go himself to England in quest of his daugh- 
ter and to take me with him. He had no time. But the 
day after the funeral I found the memoranda of which 
he had told me, and which I afterward gave to my 
guardian, Doctor Goodwin. You know Doctor Good- 
win’s parish is sending him to Europe this autumn for 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


l'j'4 

the benefit of his health, and he intends to go directly 
to London to prosecute the search for the missing wom- 
an, and to do this on his own responsibility, and for the 
love and honor he felt for his old friend, Gabriel H ad- 
don. Did I do right, Gerald ?” 

“Perfectly right, little girl. You always do, I think. 
But poor Geraldine ! Poor, proud Geraldine ! How 
little she suspects what may be before her ! Come, 
Gertrude, have you had enough of the Capitol for one 
day ?” he inquired. 

She ptit her arm in his, and they arose and left the 
building. They afterward visited the several govern- 
ment departments, and returned in the evening to a late 
dinner. 

The next morning, after an early breakfast, he took 
Gertrude down to the city hall, to the office of an emi- 
nent lawyer and conveyancer, and there he executed a 
deed, settling on his little wife an annual income that he 
thought only sufficient for all her feminine deeds, but 
that she considered about ten times as much as she 
could possibly spend. 

Gerald laughed at her modest estimate and predicted 
that, when she knew a little more of the feminine world, 
she might think her “pin money” not one-tenth as 
much as she wanted. 

They went to their hotel to luncheon. 

Afterward, Colonel Fitzgerald sat down at a table to 
write letters — one to the Cunard shipping agent in New 
York, to secure berths in the first outward-bound 
steamer, and one to his steward at the Summit Manor. 

Gertrude took a little needle-work and sat down by 
the window to sew. 

When Gerald had finished his letter to the shipping 
agent he turned to his wife and said : 

“ Gertrude, I am about to send to the Summit for my 


SOME BRIGHT DAYS FOR GERTRUDE. 


175 


valet. You will also require a maid, my dear. Now, 
you spent a week at the Summit and saw some among 
the young colored girls of the place. Let me know if 
you have any choice among them.” 

Gertrude paused with her needle in her hand and 
reflected. She had never been used to a maid in her 
life ; a maid would be an embarrassment and incon- 
venience to her ; and besides, a girl possessing all the 
strong local attachments, common to the colored people, 
and taken from the Summit Manor, would probably be 
home-sick and miserable ; yet if Gerald thought con- 
ventional propriety required his wife to have a personal 
attendant, why, a maid she must have. But she would 
take the maid as she would take a dose of physic. 

“ Well, my child, well ?” impatiently inquired Colonel 
Fitzgerald, pen poised in hand. 

Gerald ! Please will you leave it to the young 
house-girls themselves ? I have really no choice. I 
mean I would rather nqt choose, because I do not'know 
how they feel. There may be some girl who would be 
delighted to go abroad and others whose hearts would 
be almost broken by leaving home and friends,” she 
answered. 

Colonel Fitzgerald looked at her wistfully for a few 
moments and then said ; 

“ Gertrude, do you always consider others — the hum- 
blest of others — before yourself ? Well, I suppose it is 
your nature to do so. I think, however, I can meet 
your views in this matter and provide you with a 
bright, handy little maid, who will be ‘ delighted ’ to 
attend you abroad. Do you remember Meta ?” 

“ The girl who waited on Miss Sue and myself at the 
Summit ? Oh, yes.” 

‘‘ She is the sister of my valet Jubal. They have no 
other ties and are all in all to each other. They would 


17G 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


both suffer in being separated. They will both rejoice 
in being taken abroad together. So your jewel of a 
happy little maid is found, my child.” 

Gertrude’s sympathetic face lighted up with pleasure ; 
her brown eyes sparkled. 

“ Oh, thanks, Gerald. I shall really like to have 
Meta. I know her and like her !” she exclaimed. 

“Quite right, then ; Jubal shall bring Meta up with 
him,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

He wrote and sealed his letters and rang for a ser- 
vant to take them to the post-office. 

“ And now, my child,” said Gerald Fitzgerald, gravely, 
“ I must leave you for the rest of the day, and perhaps, 
Gertrude, for the night also. You will not be afraid to 
stay here ?” 

“ Oh, no, Gerald,” she answered, though her heart 
sank under the pain of parting with him, even for a 
half-day and night. 

“You know, Gertrude, there is a housekeeper at the 
head of this establishment ; so, if you should need any 
attendance that the waiter or the chamber-maid cannot 
give you, you have only to send for the housekeeper, 
and she will supply your wants and make you com- 
fortable.” 

“Yes, Gerald.” 

“ And mind, keep your door bolted as well as locked.” 

“Yes, I will.” 

“ Now, I am sure that you can trust me, Gertrude, al- 
though I do not explain to you the cause of my de- 
parture.” 

“ Oh, Gerald, how could you doubt it ? Trust you ? I 
trust you as I -trust my Lord !” said Gertrude, earnestly^ 

“Very well, my confiding little darling, be sure that 
I shall never abuse that trust,” he answered, as he 
stooped and kissed her. “ If I am not here by twelve 


SOME BRIGHT DAYS FOR GERTRUDE. 


177 


o’clock to-night, dear child, yon may know that I have 
been detained and cannot get here before morning, in 
which case I shall return to breakfast with you between 
nine and ten.” 

So saying, he took leave of her and departed. 

Gertrude sat where he had left her, and quietly went 
on with her needle-work, hem-stitching a ruffle. She 
felt lonely and desolate, although she was sure her hus- 
band loved her, and that he would keep his word and 
return to her the next morning at latest, but her soul 
was so bound up in him that his presence seemed more 
than life to her, and his absence almost death. She sat 
and sewed patiently all the afternoon and evening, with 
only the interlude of her solitary tea. 

Gertrude had told her husband the simple truth when 
she had said that she trusted in him as she trusted in 
her Lord. 

And this perfect trust was not inconsistent with the 
questions that came to her in the solitude of her cham- 
ber on this night — the second occasion of his unaccount- 
able absence. 

What was the cause of these absences ? Was it the 
same or connected with the cause that detained him 
from the side of Geraldine on the day first appointed for 
their marriage ? Was it in any way connected with that 
dark secret claimed by Magdala, whose threatened reve- 
lation had been the immediate occasion of Maurice Fitz- 
gerald’s death, and whose publication to the world, it 
had been said, would bring the great house of Fitzger- 
ald to ruin, the proud name of Fitzgerald to shame ? 

But, no ! That question was put away at once as an 
impious doubt. No shame or ruin could come to the 
house of Fitzgerald by any one bearing the name of 
Fitzgerald. 

Of that she was sure. 


178 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Geraldine’s movements. 

Oh, had we never, never met. 

Or could this heart e’en yet forget, 

How blest, how happy had we been, 

Had fate not frown’d so dark between ! 

— Thomas Moore, 

The elegantly furnished house in Franklin Square, 
temporarily occupied by the French ambassador, was 
the usual winter residence of a Northern senator, whose 
agent, with the consent of the proprietor, had let it to 
the Baron de La Vallette until the first of the ensuing 
December, before which the ambassador would be ready 
to return to France. 

It was some time after sunset and, indeed, nearly 
seven o’clock, when Madame de La Vallette and her 
guest alighted from their carriage, and entered the spa- 
cious hall of this handsome house. 

“ Dinner at eight, my love. I will myself show you to 
your apartment,” said the lively little French lady, lead- 
ing the way upstairs, to a medium-sized chamber, very 
prettily yet very simply furnished. 

The cottage bedstead, bureau, wardrobe, table and 
stand were blue and silver enameled wood, so highly 
finished and finely polished that they seemed to be 
made of porcelain. 

The wall paper, carpet, curtains and chair covers were 
all of one color and design — pale-blue ground scattered 
over with white lilies. There were no statuettes, but 
blue vases filled with lilies stood ,on every available 
stand. There were no pictures, but large, clear mirrors 
hung on every wall, 


gerald'ine’s movements. 


m 


“ Here are no works of art, ma belle ; but on every 
side where you turn your eyes, you may see reflected in 
your own image a peerless work of nature,” said 
Madame la Baronne^ smiling. 

“Thanks for that pretty speech, Veronique. I per- 
ceive that dulcet little tongue of yours has not forgotten 
its cunning. This is a very pleasant and refreshing 
little room to look at,” said Geraldine, sinking down 
among the embroidered lilies on the blue lounge and 
glancing around the chamber. 

“ Well, it is yours so long as you honor us by occu- 
pying it. Your boxes will be sent up as soon as they 
arrive. Shall I send you my dressing-maid ?” 

“ Mercy ! No. I have written for my dresser. Un- 
til her arrival I must continue to make my own toilet, 
unassisted, as we used to do at the convent — eh, Vero- 
nique ?” 

“ As you please, my love ! I will leave you to your 
desires. Only remember the house is at your disposi- 
tion,” said Madame la Baronne^ as she left the room. 

Geraldine, still in deep mourning for her uncle and 
guardian, required but little adorning. She had dressed 
for dinner before leaving her boarding-house. She had 
only to lay off her hat and mantle and change her black 
kid-gloves for white ones, to be ready for the evening 
circle in the drawing-room. 

Her costume was a heavy, lusterless black silk, made 
with a low neck and short sleeves and trimmed with 
deep folds of black crape. A very narrow puffing of 
white crepe around the upper edge of the low 

bodice and around the lower edge of the sleeves re- 
lieved the darkness of the dress. A necklace and brace- 
lets of jet adorned the whiteness of her neck and arms. 
White kid-gloves and a black-crape fan completed her 
toilet. She wore no head-dress but her own superb 


180 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


black hair, arranged in heavy plaits and wound around 
above her brows and massed at the nape of her neck. 
She stood for a moment, contemplating the effect of 
her toilet as reflected in the long dressing-glass, and 
then murmuring : “ Too somber by half,” she took a 
lily from a vase on the dressing-table and put it in her 
raven black hair and sat down to wait for Veronique, 
whom she expected on this first evening to take her 
down-stairs. 

Madame la Baronne did not keep her guest waiting. 
She soon appeared, complimented Geraldine, kissed 
her and led her down to the drawing-room, an elegant 
apartment, upholstered in blue and gold and occupied 
now by two gentlemen — a delicate, refined-looking little 
man, with a fair face and silver-gray hair and beard, 
whom madame presented as Monsieur de La Vallette ; 
and — a perfect contrast to the baron— a huge, obese 
young man, with a large head covered with short- 
cropped, sandy hair and a broad, fair face, lighted with 
pale-blue eyes and decorated with a pair of short-clipped 
sandy mustaches, whom Madame de La Vallette pre- 
sented as Prince Sigismund Von Schweringen. 

Both gentlemen made very profound bows and 
greeted the young lady with the most reverential cour- 
tesy. Both also spoke English perfectly, with a very 
slight foreign accent. 

Dinner was announced. 

The baron offered his arm to Miss Fitzgerald ; Prince 
Sigismund bowed and tendered the same courtesy to 
Madame de La Vallette ; and so they went into the 
dining-room. 

We need not linger over the dinner or the pleasant 
evening that followed it. It is enough for our purpose 
to say that, before the ponderous German bade his host 
good night,* Miss Fitzgerald had discovered that she had 


Geraldine s movements. 


181 


made a conquest of the greatest prince in Christendom, 
so far as size and weight go toward constituting great- 
ness. 

^‘Who is this Prince Sigismund Von Schweringen ?” 
inquired Geraldine, of Madame de La Vallette, who had 
accompanied her to her chamber for a little chat before 
separating for the night. “Who is Prince Sigismund 
Von Schweringen, Veronique ? I apprehend, of course, 
that he is probably some mere appanaged prince of 
some small German state, a younger brother, son, nephew 
or cousin of some little reigning grand duke, of some 
little grand duchy about half the size of one of our Vir- 
ginia manors. But who precisely is he ?” 

“You are right, Geraldine. He is the youngest son 
of the late and brother of the present reigning grand 
duke of Schweringen.” 

“ Ah ! I wonder what is his age. It seems to me he 
may be of any age between twenty and fifty. His face 
looks twenty, his figure fifty.” 

“ I thought so, too. I inquired of Monsieur de La 
Vallette, who told me that Prince Sigismund is just 
twenty-five.” 

“ Only twenty- five ! Mise'rable ! What a beast he 
will be by the time he is fifty !” exclaimed Geraldine. 

“ That is cruel of you to say, when it is so easy to per- 
ceive that the prince is already infatuated with you.” 

“ From what you say, my dear, it would seem that his 
highness is a bachelor,” said Geraldine, with a shrug of 
her shoulders. ^ 

“ Yes, yes ; certainly,” laughed the little lady, as, with 
a “ good night ” and a hasty kiss, she left the room. 

Geraldine sank deeper among the embroidered white 
lilies of her blue easy-chair and fell into thought. 

The subject might be guessed from the broken words 
that fell in low murmurs from her lips : 


182 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ If I could drive Gerald from my thoughts — if I could 
drive Gerald from my thoughts — Prince Sigismund Von 
Schweringen. I dare say he has little or nothing be- 
yond his title. That does not matter. I have enough 
for a dozen princes. And then his title, if he has no 
more, his title is a royal one ! Prince Sigismund Von 
Schweringen — <?//, what a beast ! What does that sig- 
nify? Princess Von Schweringen. Oh, Gerald, if I 
could only tear you from my memory ! Heigh-ho ! It 
is time to go to bed.” 

And to bed and even to sleep she went. 

The next morning, after breakfast, while Veronique 
and Geraldine were sitting together, in the boudoir of 
Madame la Baronne^ a servant entered with a card upon 
a silver tray, which he offered, with a bow to Miss Fitz- 
gerald. 

Geraldine took it and, to her great surprise, read, 
scrawled with a black-lead pencil in a large school-boy 
hand : 


Royal Greenleaf^ 

Greenwood. 


“Heavens, my dear, what is the matter? You look 
aghast ! Who is it ?” exclaimed Madame de La Vallette. 

“ It is my relative and ex-guardian, Mr. Greenleaf. I 
must see him, I suppose, Veronique. No, do not be 
alarmed. There is nothing the matter. I was taken by 
surprise ; that is all. Where shall I receive him, Vero- 
nique ?” 

La baronne spoke in French to the servant, who re- 
spectfully answered in the same language. 


Geraldine's movements. 


183 


“ Philippe says that monsieur is in the little reception- 
room. You will find him there. Philippe, attend made- 
moiselle'' 

The man, with a low bow, preceded Geraldine down- 
stairs to a small apartment opening on the right hand 
of the front hall, where she found Royal Greenleaf 
standing in the middle of the floor, gazing around on 
the frescoed and gilded walls and looking a great deal too 
large for the room. Indeed, his first words showed that 
he felt so, too. 

“ Hello, Gerry ! How do ? Blest if I don’t feel like 
a turkey buzzard in a canary cage ! Haven’t you got 
any bigger or plainer-looking rooms than this to ask a 
fellow in ?” 

‘‘ This is the usual reception-room for casual strangers, 
I believe, Mr. Greenleaf. I am very much surprised to 
see you. When did you arrive ?” 

“ Why, early this morning. I came up in the same 
coach with the Rev. Dr. Goodwin, who is on his way to 
Europe for his health, you know. I left him at Fuller’s, 
looking for his friends. I inquired for you at the stage- 
office, and they told me you were at Fuller’s. I inquired 
at Fuller’s, and they sent me to a slap-up fine boarding- 
house near the President’s Square. I went there, and 
they told me you were visiting here at the new French 
ambassador’s. Well, I am blest if I am not glad to find 
you at last, and get to some place where I can hang up 
my hat and rest !” 

And, with these words. Royal Greenleaf deposited his 
old leathern valise upon the carpet, hung his hat upon a 
gilded gas-burner, and seated himself comfortably in a 
large arm-chair. 

Geraldine also sank into a seat, overcome with won- 
der and dismay. What had brought Royal Greenleaf 
to Washington, and what on earth did he mean by 


184 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


bringing his luggage and hanging up his hat in the 
French ambassador’s house ? 

Did any particular business bring you to Washing- 
ton, Mr. Greenleaf ?” inquired Geraldine. 

“ Yes !” answered Royal, emphatically, “ and now I 
am coming to it. Geraldine Fitzgerald, I was your 
guardian up to a very few days ago.” 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

“ And I had a great responsibility, considering the 
frequent fallings-out between you and your sweet- 
heart.” 

“ Well, then ?” impatiently exclaimed Geraldine. 

“ And I did all a man could do to keep the peace be- 
tween you.” 

“ What of all this, Mr. Greenleaf ?” 

“ And up to last Tuesday, which was the very last of 
the many days appointed for that marriage which was 
never fated to come off, I tried to do the best I could for 
both of you.” 

“No one denies it, or fails to thank you for good in- 
tentions. But what of all that now ?” 

“This of it. Miss Fitzgerald — that I, as your late 
guardian and nearest male relative (except Colonel 
Fitzgerald), must understand the rights of this matter 
better than I can pretend to do now,” said Royal, stoutly. 

“ But why should you ?” 

“ Because it may be my bounden duty to call Colonel 
Fitzgerald to account, and I am not the craven to shrink 
from that duty,” said Royal, sternly. 

“ If I could have seen and spoken to you before I left 
Greenwood, I should have saved you the trouble of tak- 
ing this journey, but you were not at home ; so I had to 
leave a message for you with Miss Sue and Mrs. Doy. I 
hoped that they had explained everything,” said Ger- 
aldine, who, deeply as she resented the hasty marriage 


Geraldine’s movements. 


185 


of Gerald, certainly deprecated any collision between 
him and her late guardian. 

“ Listen, Miss. Fitzgerald, and I will tell you what 
they did tell me ; and I think I was the victim of a 
pious fraud. To go back to that day when you were to 
have been married — ” 

Geraldine winced. His words were so many stabs to 
her heart. 

“ I was waiting in the long drawing-room, with Father 
Dubarry and Miss Maxima Rowley, Ben. Bowers and 
my sister, Doy Fitzgerald, expecting every moment to 
see Colonel Fitzgerald and his groomsman drive up, 
and knowing no more of the new quarrel between you 
than the man in the moon, when in comes my sister 
Sue to tell us that you are taken suddenly ill and that 
there can be no wedding that day, but that you are to 
see Father Dubarry directly — ” 

“ I was ill at the time,” said Geraldine. 

Very likely ! Though after Father Dubarry left the 
room to wait on you. Sue assured me that your illness 
was not at all serious and did not require the attend- 
ance of a physician. So that afternoon I went over to 
Cave Court to see Samuel Rowley on business, and we 
got to playing cards and kept it up pretty late, so that I 
stayed all night. Next day I rode over with him to 
Wildeville. There we heard all the village agog with 
the news that Colonel Fitzgerald had jilted his cousin 
and run away with the little ferry-girl !” 

Geraldine shivered and drew her shawl around her, 
though the day was warm. 

“ I jumped on my horse immediately and rode to the 
Summit to find out what foundation there was for the 
rumor. The people there could tell me nothing but 
that their master had gone away on the preceding 
morning and had not been home since. It was now 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


ise> 

near night, so I rode home and demanded of Sue and 
Doy to tell me all they knew about it. They were both 
badly frightened, I assure you, and they told me that 
fou had broken off the engagement and sent Gerald 
away on the night preceding the wedding-day, as you 
had often done before, only that on this occasion he 
had taken you at your word and gone off and, to pre- 
vent a possible reconciliation, had married Gertrude 
Haddon in a hurry and gone off with her !” 

An irrepressible moan issued from Geraldine's lips. 

“ Next I inquired for you. I wished to hear the whole 
story from your own lips. And, to my inexpressible 
amazement they told me that you had gone to Wash- 
ington that morning with Father Dubarry and his sis- 
ter, without so much as consulting me or even waiting 
to bid me good-bye !" 

“ I wished for a change, and I had to avail myself of 
the only escort I might chance to have for many weeks,” 
said Geraldine. 

“ As if I and my sisters were not at your service !” 
exclaimed Royal. 

“ I should never have thought of troubling you.” 

“ Well, let that pass. As soon as I heard that you had 
gone to Washington, I made up my mind to follow you 
as soon as possible, and have it out. So, early the next 
morning, I packed my valise and started for Wildeville 
to catch the morning coach for Washington. There, to 
my surprise, I found Doctor Goodwin, going the same 
way. I was glad to meet him, for I wanted to ask him 
about the marriage. I was half inclined to quarrel with 
him for his share in it, too. Well, for the first stage in 
the journey we happened to be the only passengers, and 
when I asked him how he came to perform so strange a 
marriage ceremony, he told me that he did not do it 
until he had used every argument in his power to pre- 


Geraldine’s movements. 


187 


vent the young people from marrying, and that he only 
did it at length when he found that they were bent on 
going to seek some other minister and to prevent his 
young charge from leaving the house, unmarried. He 
was right. And now, Gerry, I wish to hear the truth 
from your own lips. For, if that fellow Fitzgerald has 
wronged you — set fire to him ! — if he were fifty times a 
Fitzgerald and five hundred times my cousin, I would 
call him out and fight him, and one or the other of us 
should bite the dust before we parted !” said Royal 
Greenleaf, grimly, driving his great fingers through his 
shock of red hair. 

“ Mr. Greenleaf, I thank you for your generous zeal 
in my behalf ; but, indeed, it is uncalled-for. No one 
has wronged me — least of all has Colonel Fitzgerald. 
Miss Sue told the truth. I broke off the engagement 
with my cousin and dismissed him, with orders never to 
appear before me again. I suppose it was to prevent 
the possibility of his ever disobeying me that he so sud- 
denly married Gertrude Haddon. See all !” 

“May I, as your late guardian, inquire why you broke 
the engagement, Geraldine ?“ 

“ No, you may not inquire ; or if you do, I can give 
you no answer. It is my own affair.” 

“ Then you have nothing to complain of in the con- 
duct of Colonel Fitzgerald ?” 

“ Nothing whatever.” 

“ Well, that settles it, and I may leave with a clear 
conscience^ But I say, Geraldine, where are the people 
of the house ? Or, if they are all too busy to come and 
make me welcome, aren’t you enough at home by this 
time to call a man-servant to show me to some room 
where I can get some of this travel dust off me and put 
on clean clothes for dinner ? What time do you dine 
here T 


188 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“We dine at eight o’clock. But, dear Mr. Greenleaf, 
how shall I make you understand Y Madame de La 
Vallette does not expect you. Indeed, I do not think 
she is prepared to accommodate you. Oh, what shall I 
say ?” she exclaimed in dismay. 

“ Why, what is the matter with you, Geraldine ? Do 
you mean that your friends would not be glad to see 
me ?” inquired honest Royal Greenleaf, in perplexity. 

“ Oh, Mr. Greenleaf, how can I tell you ? I — I think 
your visit would be very inconvenient just now,” said 
Geraldine in great embarrassment. 

“ That means, I suppose, I must seek a lodging else- 
where ?” 

“ I fear so, Mr. Greenleaf. I am very sorry.” 

“Well, if this is not like being kicked out of doors, I 
do not know what is !” said poor Royal Greenleaf, with 
a mortified and crestfallen air, as he took up his valise 
in one hand and his hat in the other, and prepared to 
leave. 

“ Oh, do not say that, Mr. Greenleaf. I am so sorry, 
but you know — ” 

“ Geraldine,” said Royal Greenleaf, drawing himself 
up and speaking very gravely, “ my humble home at 
Greenwood has always been open to my friends and my 
friends’ friends, without limit. Sooner than have suf- 
fered a friend or a friend’s friend, or even a stranger, to 
have left my door to seek a lodging elsewhere, I would 
have given up my own bed and contented myseli with a 
shakedown of clean straw in the barn-loft.” 

“ Oh, my dear guardian, I know it. I am so sorry. 
Pray, do not blame anybody, ■ though, for no one is in 
fault. The manners and customs of city life and coun- 
try life are in some respects so different,” said Geraldine 
earnestly. 

“ So I perceive,” dryly replied Royal Greenleaf, “ But 


Gertrude’s probation. 


189 


listen, Geraldine. If these friends of yonrs should ever 
find themselves in Wilde County, I would thank you to 
let me know it, that I may throw open the doors of 
Greenwood to them for as long as they please to stay.” 

Even Geraldine was almost ready to cry with vexation. 

At that moment a footman entered with a card for 
Geraldine. She looked and read : 

“My Love: I have reflected. Your guardian comes from the 
country. Unless he has made some more agreeable arrange- 
ments, make him stay here. I will come down and welcome him 
as soon as you will permit me. Veronique.” 

With a smile of real pleasure, Geraldine passed the 
card to Royal Greenleaf. 

“ There !” cried honest Roy, as soon as he had read it. 
“ What did I tell you ? I knew, of course, the politest 
people on the face of the earth, as the French are 
weren’t agoing to behave worse than Arabs ! Here,” 
he added, beckoning the footman, “ tell your mist’ess I 
am much obliged, and, of course, I accept her kind in- 
vitation.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Gertrude’s probation. 

Nay, nay, no thought, not any thought. 

At least, not any thought of you, 

But what shall thank, dear love. Nor aught 
Of love’s mistrust between us two 
Can ever creep. Thank God, we keep 
Too close to let thin doubt slip through. —Anon. 

After her solitary tea on that evening when Gerald 
had left her on one of his mysterious absences, Gertrude 
drew her low chair to the center-table, took up her 
needle- work, and sewed under the light of the chandelier. 

I will sit and sew till twelve o’clock, and then when 


190 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


I go to bed I may sleep, and the night will not seem so 
long.” 

She was interrupted by a light rap at the door. 

** Come in,” she said, half hoping, half expecting a 
note or a message from Colonel Fitzgerald. 

‘‘ Yet why should I look for any when he has only left 
me for a night ? I am growing silly,” she thought, as 
she raised her eyes to see the waiter enter, followed by 
another man with a pile of packages in his arms. 

The waiter advanced and handed her a note, while 
the porter began to disburden himself of his parcels and 
arrange them upon the center-table. 

Gertrude recognized Gerald’s hand-writing with de- 
light, opened and read his note : 

‘‘My Dear Little True: I send you something that may 
amuse you, and help to pass off the time of my enforced absence : 
for I shall not be back to you before nine to-morrow morning, 
when I will join you at breakfast. Gerald.” 

She lifted her head and looked around. Both the 
waiter and the porter had left the room and closed the 
door behind them. 

She pressed the little note to her lips and then put it 
in her bosom. It was the first note or letter that Gerald 
Fitzgerald had ever written to her, and she resolved to 
keep it forever. 

Then she laid aside her sewing and began to open 
her parcels with curious interest to see what they might 
contain. 

It was like seeking answers to riddles which she 
could not guess. 

The first packet that she opened contained a white 
satin-wood dressing-case, lined with blue velvet and 
fitted with cut-glass bottles, silver cases and ivory-han- 
dled brushes and combs. 

The second parcel contained a casket of white satin- 


Gertrude’s probation. 


191 


wood, in size and shape a companion-piece to the dress- 
ing-case, also lined with blue-velvet and divided into 
compartments for fine jewelry. 

“ These will make an elegant pair for a toilet-table,” 
said Gertrude to herself, as she admired their beauty. 

Two other parcels contained — the one a work-box, 
the other a writing-desk, both exteriorly of the same 
size, shape and pattern, both made of ebony, inlaid with 
a wreath of lilies, formed — the fiowers of mother of 
pearl, the leaves of malachite. They were also exter- 
nally companion-pieces. The work-box was lined with 
blue satin and fitted with everything appertaining to a 
lady’s needle-work. The writing-desk was fitted up 
with blue-velvet and contained every requisite for a 
lady’s penmanship. 

Gertrude was exceedingly pleased with these new 
toys. “ Order,” with her was “ Heaven’s first law.” 
And here was order made not only practicable but 
beautiful. 

She arranged her pretty boxes on every table in 
the parlor by turns and admired them in every position. 
Finally, she fixed the white satin-wood dressing-case 
and jewel casket on the bureau of her bedroom and, 
placed her inlaid ebony work-box and writing-desk on 
the center-table in the parlor. 

vSo engaged had she been with her boxes that she 
had neglected to examine some other parcels that lay 
upon the table. She opened them in turn. One con- 
tained a set of pearl jewelry, not very showy, but such 
as even Gertrude could take pleasure in wearing — such 
pleasure that, with girlish simplicity, she at once took 
off the plain gold set she wore and replaced it by put- 
ting the pearl ear-rings in her ears and pinning the 
pearl brooch in her collar. The next parcel contained 
a sandal-wood glove-box, holding a dozen number-five 


192 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


gloves in prettily assorted colors ; another, a perfumed 
flat box of a dozen fine embroidered handkerchiefs. 
Finally, there was a little packet, the smallest in the 
lot, which was found to contain an elegant little gold 
hunting- watch and chain. 

Gertrude uttered a low exclamation of surprise and 
pleasure. All her presents had delighted her both in 
themselves and as the gifts of Gerald ; but the watch 
and chain, more than all the others ; these were g;-ifts 
that were equally useful and beautiful and that she 
often desired to possess. She took the watch from its 
case, kissed it and hung it by its chain around her neck. 

“ Oh, how good Gerald is to me ! He does like me, 
he does think about me when he is away, and he does 
try to make me happy !” she murmured to herself, as 
she took up one after another of his gifts and kissed 
them. 

Notwithstanding all her earnest woman’s love for her 
husband, she enjoyed the pretty presents he' had sent 
her, just as any other young girl might have done. 

So the evening, though solitary, passed pleasantly 
away — so pleasantly that Gertrude did not note the 
flight of time until she heard a distant clock strike 
twelve. 

“ I thank Heaven the night is half spent. In nine 
hours I shall see Gerald again. I will go to bed and 
sleep six of them away. But first I will wind up my 
dear little watch and set it one minute past twelve — the 
very first minute of the new day.” 

She did so, and then put away her treasures in her 
upper bureau drawer, prepared to retire, offered up her 
evening prayers, and went to bed and to sleep. 

Gertrude, when her heart was at rest, was a sound 
sleeper. She slept until morning. 

When she awoke, her first act was to take her beloved 









.;n'o HOIA^ l > , 

,^>7o ‘od Ifl^xn Oii:. 

‘.'*i‘; .' vjuarm /f^i ir ^fei'+ Jrjjicr-' ujlLVf 'jijri 


VMirJif c4>,l ! ‘-'< i:'-^ 1 ,^inrfJ t>b^' isob 

.bstriiBlyxd aaa ‘"I vlr^oqtaq am iQ^'aO fiin.bo/fi V-' 

no jr Iiifil bn^ qn ':srik bfuj bsgi-'hr e-ffxV ;•/. ^y'rfglbic 


■• " ' > V* ■ • ■ . . • • • . • 

^;;y,, -45 bol'-ao .fvvft Ji:i 11 vyl/'^K :§ 6 b f^b^tif. 

’^■.!V;qirtriTi hns nv/ob baqiTTi;l^ won k) ia'r.k ,_ 

^ . ■ . •- . . V bl aq/f 

'.■ .. ]f QB ff/ab, fii a'loici ad niv/nbJekLa lyoy ,yba*v' ,;iv> 'v : •' 

. -qok »bii52 orfa bns aiasd •innin T baa . 5 

•rojar^m laoY .j^ob oibd arfi jaq oi ki^slan: fix: 

"I'^nizl biw pjol birjs bnxjrfead leab ,ic 6 b 
? .. . '■^frijiTom xjJaiq on bfid alfS , bandt* laif bari^ad. . 

. :t3ij !o abhd ^nooy £ avisd'I^Uipv/ 

■'*>i>n lari — I sq iixqVofi^b^kffqybrrdv' *V'--. 

, ; fcffir^ baj: tsHoo fland-abjJv/ adi dkv? ,x?:*:r!rj 

' m. •'Xad' HO taq ada. axiw .?f /f\»: jrf - .b a- 

;ihai::' r>nx> rfa^i'.W ad? hxu-: ^lav* .; . I'b . io '*:-i . ,. ' 

^■ : .». aid t>xi;^£afd' ifoaat wod fitiri. vvoil':? at -f. 'r;d brui/k; 


■:.t 

n 




biu: 1aAq-5i£r{ ycl lariot ofumr-i * id bak>kjffl;"*':^-arfvj V 

.a^rl noif ni naad nova h.:{^ 

a/fj bJH 'bii£ arri«:o oJt i^Ixlv/ arft ^»^t 6 ;ft»" ■ 


YaubV>aninV>i ybiiO'i a^f'd ^?aii£ai<f dydabnvbra, ,at’'-|f^,w 
b'.7/ f>or:ai>*tadTa70 


airf; :)!> aabab ff 
bu£ ,>rioY/ aid xt; iqaroiq jgnvir , a 

’'^Yav i: ni affk/ hxfJV I 


.vb^dlEW bij. 



■f .7:f ba 



i - bLrji'O 3?’^<>b'cv 
'.'auidto tdavil; Y: : br:(f iavc> J>£ri arf,-Mv 
'fTjj^r svxiii tnjji': : • : ob tfidt .^/of 
-'•■-b I 7»>f k^ ^oCH 

■ V"' 

. . 



Gertrude’s probation. 


193 


little watch from under her pillow, where she had laid 
it the night before, and ask it what time it was. 

The watch replied that it was just ten minutes past 
eight. 

“ Oh, you dear little thing, I am so glad ! I do believe 
you hurry the time on for me purposely !” she exclaimed, 
childishly, as she kissed and shut it up and laid it on her 
bureau. 

Her little dog Nelly, that had slept coiled up on a 
cushion of the easy-chair, now jumped down and ran up 
to her to be caressed. 

“Oh, Nelly, your master will be here in less than an 
hour, and I must make haste and dress,” she said, stop- 
ping only an instant to pet the little dog. “ Your master 
and — my dear, dear, dear husband and lord and king !” 

She hurried her toilet. She had no pretty morning 
robe, such as would have befitted a young bride of her 
new rank, but she put on the best she had — her neat 
black-silk dress, with the white-linen collar and cuffs ; 
and, though it was morning, she put on her pearl set in 
honor of the giver, and hung the gold watch and chain 
around her neck to show him how much pleasure she 
took in his gifts. 

She completed her simple toilet by half-past eight, and 
was finer than she had ever been in her life. 

Then she rang for the waiter to come and set the 
table, and ordered breakfast to be ready for nine o'clock. 

The waiter, not overburdened with duties at this dull 
season of the year, was prompt in his work, and the 
cloth was laid and the service arranged in a very few 
moments. 

A little before nine o’clock Gerald Fitzgerald walked 
into the parlor. If he had ever had any doubt of his 
little Gertrude’s devoted love, that doubt must have van- 
ished before the radiant look of joy that lighted up her 


104 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


face as she welcomed him. She did not need to say how 
glad she was that he had got back — she looked it ; but 
after the first greetings were over, she did call his at- 
tention to her decorations, and tell him how much she 
thanked him for his gifts. 

“ Why, my dear little True, those were only some 
things thought of and picked up in a hurry, when I left 
you last night, and sent to be a little diversion for you 
in your solitude. But, after breakfast, we must go out 
together, my child, and get what you will want on your 
sea- voyage,” he said, smiling at her delight. 

Oh, thank you, Gerald, thank you so much ! It will 
not be a great deal I shall need. Grandpa, when we 
were thinking of going to Europe, told me that I should 
only require one suit for the whole voyage and only 
other clothing enough to last ten days, and that I 
should take no more than could be put into a small 
truhk, to stand in the stateroom. Everything, he said, 
could be purchased so much better and cheaper in Eu- 
rope,” said Gertrude, with a wise air of experience. 

“ Yes, little Moderation ; but we shall be on the sea 
in the month of October — a fine month to cross in, but 
cold. We shall both need extra- warm outer garments. 
You must have a seal-skin sack, muff and cap, among 
other things.” 

The entrance of the waiter with the breakfast-tray 
put an end to a confidential conversation. 

After breakfast, Gerald ordered a carriage and took 
Gertrude out shopping. She wore her little country hat 
and Paisley shawl, and looked quaint, matronly and old- 
fashioned. 

Gerald had perspicacity enough to see that that was 
all in her costume and resolved to change it. 

They stopped first at a fashionable modiste’s, where 
Gertrude chose a neat black- velvet jacket, trimmed 


Gertrude’s probation. 


195 


with deep guipure lace and a little black-velvet hat to 
match. These, Gertrude knew, could be worn with her 
black-silk dress and would make a good walking-suit. 

Here also she ordered a sea-suit of black serge, that 
was to be sent to her, complete, in two days. 

They next went to a furrier’s, where Gerald himself 
selected the sealskin sack, muff and cap, that were to 
be Gertrude’s best defenses on deck against cold days 
and high winds at sea. A few other purchases were 
made and then they returned to their hotel. 

“ But you have not got anything at all for yourself, 
dear Gerald ! All for me, nothing for yourself,” said 
Gertrude, pathetically. 

My good little girl, I have left an order with my 
outfitter to provide what is needful.* He understands 
that business much better than I do,” answered Colonel 
Fitzgerald. 

They dined, and rested after dinner, and in the even- 
ing, Gerald took Gertrude to a concert of celebrated 
performers that some enterprising musical manager 
had got up and which was well attended even at that 
dull interval before the meeting of Congress filled the 
city with its winter population. 

Little Gertrude wore her new velvet hat and sack 
and her pearl jewelry, and though thus simply dressed, 
looked no longer quaint and old-fashioned. 

This country girl had never been to any public place 
of amusement, and so she enjoyed her first concert ex- 
cessively and was frank and outspoken in her expres- 
sions of pleasure. 

And certainly Gerald Fitzgerald’s enjoyment of the 
music was doubled by his witnessing that of his naive 
little companion. 

They returned to their hotel about eleven o’clock and 
finished the day with a dainty little supper. 


196 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


The next morning’s mail brought several letters — 
one from the New York agent of the Cunard steamship 
company, enclosing a diagram of the first cabin of the 
Europa^ with the staterooms yet at their disposal 
marked. 

This letter Gerald Fitzgerald answered by return 
mail, enclosing the money for four passages and thus 
securing their berths. 

The other letter was from Pennyman, his steward, 
telling him that the two young servants, Meta and 
Jubal, would be sent on to Washington by the next 
morning’s stage-coach from Wilde ville. 

This letter required no immediate answer ; but Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald turned to Gertrude and said : “ Our 
servants will reach the city to-night, my child. And 
we sail for Liverpool by the Europa on Wednesday 
next. We should leave here for New York on Monday 
at farthest. That will give us only one day in New 
York before the sailing of the steamer. This is Friday. 
We have only two days to prepare and one day to rest, 
before we commence our journey.” 

‘‘ That will be quite enough for me, dear Gerald, if it 
is for you. I have all I wish for,” said Gertrude. 

“ Or nearly all. We will go out to-day and pick up 
some good books to read on the voyage. I will also 
look up a good flute. You are fond of music, I think, 
Gertrude ?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed !”. 

“ I am an indifferently good performer on the flute ; 
so we may beguile the tediousness of the voyage with a 
little music now and then. Ah, who is this ?” 

A card had that instant been placed in his hand by 
the waiter, who had come in to set the breakfast-table. 

“ Bless my soul, Gertrude, it is the Rev. Dr. Good- 
win !” he exclaimed, as he read the name. 


Gertrude’s probation. 197 

‘“Doctor Goodwin !’ ” echoed Gertrude. 

“ Yes, child. Waiter, where have you left the gentle- 
man ?” 

“ In the reception-room, sir.” 

“ Show him up here at once.’" 

The waiter replaced the breakfast-tray, and left the 
room to obey the order. 

“ Oh, I shall be so glad to see my dear old guardian ! 
Shall not you also, dear Gerald?” eagerly demanded 
Gertrude. 

“ Yes,- love. We will have the old gentleman join us 
at breakfast, unless he has already taken his morning 
meal, which I scarcely think probable, as he must have 
arrived by the early stage-coach from Wilde ville. I 
wonder what brings him here, by the way ?” 

“ Oh, don’t you know ? His congregation is sending 
him to Europe for his health.” 

“ Ah, certainly ! It would be curious, by the way, if 
he should be going over on the same ship with us.” 

“ Why, yes, so it would ! Oh, how I should like that ! 
Would not you, Gerald ?” 

“ Certainly, if it would please you,” answered Colonel 
Fitzgerald, somewhat coldly. 

“ Oh, it would ! Because he plays chess so well ! And 
you like to play chess, too, Gerald. And he could play 
with you, and so help you to beguile the tediousness of 
the voyage,” she answered frankly. 

And now Gerald blamed himself for the momentary, 
unreasonable jealousy he had felt of his wife’s old guard- 
ian and pastor. 

The truth is that the love and worship of a heart like 
little Gertrude’s had come to be a sweet and acceptable 
incense to his wounded spirit, and he could not bear to 
share it with any other living man, even though that 
man was her gray-haired minister. 


198 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Ah ! That Irish-Italian temperament — that morbid 
Fitzgerald jealousy ! Geraldine was its greatest but 
not its only slave and victim. 

The door opened, and the waiter reentered, ushering 
in Doctor Goodwin. 

Gertrude sprang to welcome him, exclaiming : 

“ My dear Doctor Goodwin ! I am so overjoyed to 
see you !” 

“ So am I, to see you, my dear ! How well and 
happy you are looking,” replied the minister in some 
surprise and pleasure, as he cordially shook the hands 
she gave him. 

“ How do you do, sir ? I am happy to see you in 
Washington,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, courteously greet- 
ing the visitor. 

“ I thank you, colonel ! I am very glad to find you 
and my good child here looking so well,” heartily re- 
sponded Doctor Goodwin. 

“Take this easy-chair, sir. Do ! You will breakfast 
with us, of course. I hope you have not breakfasted 
yet,” said Gertrude, warmly, as she wheeled up a large 
easy-chair and gently forced him into it. 

“ No, my little hostess, I have but just arrived and 
only had time to wash my face and brush my hair 
before coming to see you,” pleasantly replied the pastor, 
as he sank comfortably into the offered chair, feeling 
much relieved at the sight of Gertrude’s perfectly con- 
tented face. 

“ Lay one more napkin for this gentleman,” was the 
aside order given by Colonel Fitzgerald to the waiter. 
The man, who understood every other requisite to be 
included in the order for the napkin, disappeared and 
soon reappeared with all that was wanted. 

“ I travelled in the same coach with a near relative of 
yours, colonel,” said Doctor Goodwin, genially. 


Gertrude's probation. 


199 


“ Ah, indeed ! But as all Wilde County are relatives 
of mine, I should never be able to guess which partic- 
ular relative had the privilege of your society, doctor," 
said Gerald, pleasantly. 

“ Well, it was Greenleaf, of Greenwood." 

‘‘ Oh !" 

“He parted with me at the stage office, but said that 
he would report to me at this hotel in the course of the 
day." 

“ Well, I am sure we shall be happy to see him. Come, 
Gertrude, my dear — take your place at the head of the 
table and give us some coffee. Come, doctor," said 
Colonel Fitzgerald, pointing to a chair. 

They gathered around the little breakfast table, and 
Doctor Goodwin, without waiting to be “ interviewed," 
told his young friends that he was going to Europe on 
the Cunard steamer that was to sail from New York on 
Wednesday and was undisguisedly elated to hear from 
Colonel Fitzgerald that that was the steamer upon 
which Mrs. Fitzgerald and himself were to sail for the 
old world. 

After breakfast they chatted a little while, until the 
waiter came in and announced that the carriage ordered 
by Colonel Fitzgerald was waiting at the door. 

Then Doctor Goodwin arose, saying simply : 

“ I will not bid you good morning, for I have a room 
in this house quite near these ; so I shall see you sev- 
eral times a day while we stay here ; and I suppose 
that we shall all go on to New York together." 

“Certainly. And I hope you will take the freedom of 
our little parlor here and use it as your own," cordially 
replied Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ added Gertrude. “And don't go now, unless 
you have some business to take you out. There are the ' 
morning papers. Sit in the arm-chair and read them 


200 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


until our return. We shall not be gone long. We are 
only going out to get a couple of small trunks to pack 
our sea outfit in.” 

“ Thanks, my dear little hostess, I will sit here and 
look over the morning papers for a little while. I wish 
to see if there is anything in them about Lackland’s^ 
case. Will the execution take place on next Friday, do 
you think, colonel ?” he inquired, suddenly turning to 
Fitzgerald. 

“ No ; the President has respited him. A new trial 
will probably be granted him,” coldly replied Colonel 
Fitzgerald. 

“ I am glad of that. I never believed that man to be 
guilty. A new trial may enable him to vindicate him- 
self,” said Doctor Goodwin, cordially. 

“Why — was there a man here under sentence of 
death, Gerald ?” hastily inquired Gertrude, in a tone of 
awe. 

“ The carriage has been waiting half an hour, my 
child. We must hurry. Doctor Goodwin will excuse 
us, I know,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, without seeming 
to notice her question. 

“Oh, certainly. If I am to make myself at home 
with you, you must begin by treating me without cere- 
mony,” said the doctor, as he settled himself to his 
papers. 

Colonel Fitzgerald and Gertrude left the hotel on 
their last shopping expedition and returned in time for 
luncheon. 

That evening, Jubal, the valet, and Meta, the lady’s 
maid, arrived by the late coach — ^both in high glee at 
the thought of going abroad together, with their master 
and mistress, “ to see the world.” 

“ The next day, Saturday, Royal Greenleaf made his 
appearance and was cordially welcomed both by Gerald 


Gertrude's probation. 201 

X:. 

and Gertrude, who invited him to stay and dine with 
them that evening. 

Royal Greenleaf declined the invitation and shortly 
afterward took his leave, bearing with him many tender 
and affectionate messages from Gertrude to her friends 
at Greenwood. 

They — Doctor Goodwin, Colonel and Mrs. Fitzgerald, 
and their servants — were to leave Washington by the 
earliest train for New York, on Monday morning. It 
was now Saturday afternoon. Therefore, to avoid en- 
croaching upon the Sabbath, it was necessary to finish 
their packin*g before bedtime. 

By ten o’clock all their preparations were completed. 

Early an Monday morning the whole party, consisting 
of Doctor Goodwin, Colonel Fitzgerald, Gertrude and 
the two servants, started by the early train for New 
where they duly arrived in the evening. 

Two days later, as Madame de La Valle tte and her 
guest. Miss Fitzgerald, sat together in a pleasant morn- 
ing-room, madanie being engaged in coloring a pencil 
sketch of flowers, and Geraldine in looking over the 
morning papers, the latter read in the list of passengers 
that sailed on Wednesday by the Europa for Liverpool 
the names of Colonel Fitzgerald, Mrs. Fitzgerald and 
two servants. 

She stopped reading, looked up and inquired : 

“ Ma belle^ when do you return to France ?” 

We sail in the Asia^ for Liverpool, a week from next 
Saturday. Oh, that you could be persuaded to go with 
us !” exclaimed Veronique. 

“ I will go with you,” answered Geraldine, with quiet 
decision. 

“ You will ? Oh, you angel !” cried Veronique, sud- 
denly kissing her. “ How good you are ! You fill me 
with joy, with delight !” 


20^ 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AT SEA, 



The sea, the sea, the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 

Without a mark, without a bound. 

It runneth earth’s wide regions round; 

It plays with clouds, it mocks the skies, 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

— Barry Cornwall. 

To Gertrude, life now presented a quick succession of 
brilliant surprises, with a dazzling vista of. pleasures 
radiating far into the future. 

The long, bright railway ride of that glorious autumn 
day, with the swift reaching and passing of so many large 
towns and villages ; the noisy arrival at New York, the 
gay bustle at the depot, the crowded cabin of the ferry- 
boats ; the forest of shipping at the landing ; the long, 
magnificent streets of the city-; the splendid buildings ; 
the grand hotels, all so common-place and uninteresting 
to the citizen’s eyes, to our little rustic from the mount- 
ains of West Virginia, formed a series of wonders such 
as she had never even dreamed of. 

On Wednesday morning, our party arose early to 
prepare for their embarkation on the Europa for Liver- 
pool ; for although the ship was not to sail until noon, 
the passengers were requested to be on board some 
hours sooner. 

The travellers, with their servants, Meta and Jubal, 
weighted with sundry boxes and bundles, found them- 
selves on deck long before the time of sailing. 

Gertrude sat on a deck-chair, watching the confusion 
incidental to an ocean vessel about to leave port. 


AT SEA. 


203 


“Well, here we are, my dear,” spoke a kind voice 
near, and Gertrude turned suddenly to see Doctor Good- 
win. “You look pale and tired, my little Gertrude — 
worn out with sight-seeing yesterday, I suppose,” he 
added, as he took a seat beside her. 

“ Oh, no. Doctor Goodwin ! But I cannot get used to 
the noise and confusion here, and I am half stunned 
and half distracted — that is all,” said Gertrude, pleas- 
antly. 

“ Well, my dear, I have been to sea twice in my long 
life, and all I have to say from my experience is that 
the embarkation is in every respect and to every pas- 
senger the worst part of the whole performance,” re- 
plied the doctor, smiling. 

The roar of mingled voices and noises from the ship 
and shore now drowned all attempts at conversation 
for a while. When it had subsided a little, the doctor 
inquired : 

“ Where is the colonel ?” 

“On shore, seeing to our luggage. We have very 
little, but we don’t want it lowered into the hold by 
mistake,” replied Gertrude. 

“ Ah ! I see. And, by the way, here comes Fitz- 
gerald now !” exclaimed Doctor Goodwin, as Gerald 
stepped up on deck, followed by his servant, bearing all 
the portable baggage. 

“ Well, Doctor Goodwin, here we are, in excellent 
time,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, offering his hand, which 
the rector took as heartily as if he had not parted with 
him only a few hours before. 

“ What o’clock is it, I wonder ? How long will it be 
before we get off ?” inquired the doctor, drawing a huge 
gold hunting-watch from his pocket and consulting it. 

“ It is now eleven o’clock, and the ship is advertised to 
sail at twelve,” answered Colonel Fitzgerald. 


204 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Yes, advertised^' repeated the doctor, incredulously. 

“ But these ocean steamers always sail on time and 
would do so even if they left half the freight on deck. 
Come, Gertrude, I think you will find a more agreeable 
position on the opposite side of the deck. Come, doctor, 
will you go ?’' 

They all arose and crossed the deck to the larboard 
side, where they found some benches unoccupied. 
They immediately took possession of them. 

The deck was every moment becoming more crowded 
with passengers and their friends who had come on 
board to see them off. 

Of these some were laughing, jesting and talking 
merrily over their adieus. 

Others grouped apart, dropping tears and breathing 
prayers over their fond farewells. 

It was a small epitome of human life with all its joys 
and woes — this deck of the ocean steamer on its clear- 
ing day. 

The last hour before sailing was the noisiest. The 
officers shouted, the sailors bellowed, the stevedores 
swore, chains clanked, trucks rattled, freight fell thun- 
dering to the deck, and the mingled roar ascended 
louder, stronger, fuller and more deafening and dis- 
tracting than ever before. 

Then, quite suddenly, there came a lull in the storm, as 
if every one had stopped at the same instant of time. 

In the midst of the silence one of the officers of the 
ship, a slim young man in the semi-naval uniform, with 
a gilt band around his cap and a speaking-trumpet in 
his hand, sprang upon the poop, put the instrument to 
his mouth and blasted : 

All ashore 1" 

“ Oh, then and there were seen and heard such sights 
and sounds as are never witnessed^ anywhere in the 


AT SEA. 


205 


world but on the deck of a passenger ship an hour be- 
fore she sails — heart-rending partings between parents 
and children, brothers and sisters, husband and wives, 
lovers and friends ! 

Sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, for who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes ?” 

Our Gertrude was parting with no one particularly 
dear to her, yet she had to lower her vail to hide the 
tears that fell in sympathy with those who were. 

As for the two young, tender-hearted negroes, seeing 
such distress all around them, they made themselves 
lovingly ridiculous, by lifting up their voices and weep- 
ing aloud, with their helpless refrain of : 

“ Oh, Lordy ! Oh, Lordy ! Oh^ Lor-dy 

A kind old lady, sitting near, addressed Meta, saying : 

‘‘ Are you leaving friends behind, my poor girl T 

“ Oh, Lordy ! No, ma'am ; not us isn’t, but 'mos' 
everybody else is, dough ! Oh^ Lordy answered Meta, 
through her bursting sobs. 

“What! Are you crying about other people’s part- 
ings ?” 

“ I — I can’t help of it, ole mist’ess ! Oh^ Lordy 

The old lady stopped asking questions and began to 
meditate. 

The trial was soon over. The decks were cleared. 
Those to be left at home went back to the pier, to stand 
and gaze at their friends on ship and as long as possible. 

Those left on deck crowded to the side of the steamer 
to return that “last, long, lingering look.” 

The ship’s time-keeper struck eight bells. Some great 
clock told the hour of *noon. 

The gang-plank was withdrawn. 

The steamer, amid the hauling in of chains and 


m 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


hawsers, dropped away from the side of her pier, swung 
slowly around and stood out to sea. 

The signal gun was fired and, amid the cheers and 
hurrahs of the men on deck' and of those on the pier, the 
ship sailed away. 

Every available place along the bulwarks of the ship 
was occupied by those who had left friends standing on 
the shore, and who were waving white handkerchiefs 
and straining eyes to catch a last sign of recognition be- 
fore pier and people sank out of sight. 

An aged couple were standing immediately behind 
Colonel Fitzgerald and Gertrude, trying to raise them- 
selves on tiptoes high enough to see over the heads of 
those in front. 

‘‘ Will you take our places, sir. We do not really care 
to hold them,” said Gerald Fitzgerald, kindly and cour- 
teously, as he moved away with Gertrude on his arm. 

“Thanks, sir. Our daughter and her husband are 
standing on the pier,” the old gentleman explained, as 
he drew his aged companion to the place where they 
could obtain, perhaps, a last earthly glimpse of their 
children. 

“ Come, Gertrude, let us go forward,” whispered Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald, leading her to the bows of the steamer, 
where there was more room. 

There they sat down- to enjoy the magnificent pros- 
pect of New York harbor, seen in the glorious sunlight 
of this early afternoon in autumn. 

On one side stood the city with its innumerable piers 
and its forest of shipping. 

On the other side the open bay with its solitary in- 
coming or outgoing ships and its beautiful islands and 
forts. 

A familiar and pleasing prospect to Gerald, a new and 
delightful one to Gertrude. 


AT SEA. 


207 


They sat there in thoughtful silence watching the 
shore until it slowly faded out of sight. 

‘ A penny for your thoughts,’ my little True ?” mur- 
mured Gerald, with a smile. 

“ I am just now thinking — and congratulating myself 
on the thought — that for ten whole days, at least, we 
shall be close together ; that for ten blessed days we 
cannot be farther apart than the length of this ship,” 
answered Gertrude, ingenuously. 

Colonel Fitzgerald smiled sadly, as he pressed the 
little hand of his companion. 

It was not until they had passed Sandy Hook that he 
arose and whispered : 

“ Come, dear, it would have been a loss to have left the 
deck sooner ; but now, I think we will go below and 
take a look at our accommodations.” 

“ And the servants, Gerald ?” she asked, as she arose. 

“ Yes, let them follow us. Come, Jubal ; come, Meta. 
Pick up all those things and bring them after us,” he 
added, beckoning to the two young colored people, who 
were standing at some little distance with all the port- 
able baggage at their feet. 

Colonel Fitzgerald led the way to the cabins below, 
where he found a steward who soon showed him the fine 
double stateroom that had been secured for himself and 
his wife. 

“ It is like a tiny boudoir^' said Gertrude, appreciat- 
ively, as she sat down upon the little blue sofa, and 
looked across at the blue-curtained alcove of the berths 
and around upon the pretty shelves, brackets and draw- 
ers that occupied every available place and, without 
taking up any special room, economized every inch of 
empty space. Thus all beneath the sofa was filled by 
two deep drawers capable of holding the extra clothing 
that would be needed by any two persons on the voy- 


• 208 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


age. The space tinder the lower berth was filled by two 
little sole-leather trunks. Even the long looking-glass 
that hung at the end of the state-room opposite the en- 
trance door and between the sofa and the berths could 
be utilized by being turned face downward on a hinge, 
when the back was found to be a smooth slab of mahog- 
any, with a support, made to form a convenient table 
for reading, writing, working or lunching, to stand di- 
rectly before the sofa. 

“ I will leave you and your maid here to get comfort- 
ably to housekeeping, while I go to see what sort of 
provision has been made for our servants in the second 
cabin,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he left the stateroom. 

The next half-hour was spent by Gertrude, assisted 
by her little attendant, in examining the conveniences 
of the place and in unpacking and arranging their ef- 
fects, folding cloaks and shawls, and putting them 
away in one drawer, and putting underclothing in an- 
other, standing books upon the shelves, and setting up 
her pretty boxes on brackets, all of which had sea 
guards to prevent their contents from being throw*, 
down by the rolling of the ship in a possible gale. 

By the time this pleasant task was completed, and 
Gertrude looked around upon her new, strange dwelling 
with a smile of satisfaction. Colonel Fitzgerald came 
back to take her into the saloon to dinner. 

After dinner they returned to the deck to enjoy the 
one remaining hour of daylight. 

They were now entirely out of sight of land. The 
broad expanse of heaven touched at the horizon the 
broad expanse of ocean in a vast blue sphere, of which 
the ship seemed the center, and the sun was the light, 
and there was nothing else to be seen until the sun, 
slowly sinking to the sea, set all the western hemi- 
sphere aflame, and sent a path of crimson fire flashing 


AT SEA. 


209 


from its low disk across the sea toward the ship. As 
the sun went down into the sea, this line of light was 
not suddenly but slowly withdrawn, until, following its 
source, it sank out of sight. 

‘‘ It is beautiful ! It is glorious !” fervently murmured 
Gertrude, as she breathlessly watched the sun set at 
sea. “ And, oh, to think we shall see it every night for 
ten days !” she added. 

“ If the weather should continue fine,” observed Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald, with a smile. 

With the setting of the sun the air grew colder. 

“ Will you go in ?” inquired Gerald. 

“ Oh, no, pray ! I wish to stay here and watch the 
stars as they come out. I do not think I ever before 
saw the whole sphere of sky from east to west, from 
north to south, as I do now. You know, where I was 
brought up, there was always some rock or mountain to 
intercept and hide some portion of it. Let us stay 
here, Gerald, if you don’t mind.” 

‘‘ Certainly ; but you must be wrapped up better,” he 
said, as he turned and went below. 

He brought up a large shawl and wrapped the little 
lady very carefully in it and resumed his seat by her 
side. Then the brilliant starlight night of the open sea 
came on. 

They were almost alone on the deck. The man at 
the wheel, the officer of the watch, and one or two 
loungers near the smoke-stack, were the only individ- 
uals in sight, but even they were not in hearing. 

“ Gertrude,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, speaking gravely, 
after a thoughtful pause, “ do you remember the first 
night at Fuller’s, when, without explanation or adieu, I 
left you all alone until morning ? Of course you dp ; 
you can never forget it. But do you often think of it, 
my child ?” 


210 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


*‘Yes,” said Gertrude, softly. 

“ And wonder and speculate about it ?” 

“ Yes,” murmured Gertrude. 

“ And connect it, in your thoughts, with that other un- 
accountable absence when I failed to keep my appoint- 
ment on my wedding-day at the Summit ?” 

“ Yes,” whispered the young wife. 

“ I thought so, of course. Well, my little True, you 
are right. Both absences were due to the same cause 
and related to the same event. But did you ever sus- 
pect this cause and this event, incomprehensible to you, 
to compromise me in any manner ?” 

“ Oh, no, no, no !” replied the little lady, in a low but 
fervent tone. 

“ Again I thought so, of course, my child, and again 
you are right, as you will know when you hear the story.” 

“ Oh, Gerald, I know it now,” she murmured. 

“Thanks for your sweet trust, little one. Another 
question, and my catechism is over. Did you ever sus- 
pect, Gertrude, that this peculiar secret of my conduct 
had anything in common with the secret said to have 
been communicated to my father on his death-bed, the 
revelation of which the mad woman, Magdala, declares 
would ruin our house ?” 

“No,” said Gertrude, earnestly, “I never suspected 
that it had.” 

“ Right once more, my little True. Always right. 
There could have been no connection between them. 
And while we are on the subject, my dear child, let 
me assure you that I know no more of the nature of 
that secret — if there was one^ and it was not the mere 
hallucination of a mad woman, imposed upon the failing 
intellect of a dying man — I know no more of the nature 
of that secret, I say, than you do. I have no more data 
upon which to build a theory of it than you have.” 


AT SEA. 


m 


Certainly, I am sure of that, Gerald.” 

“ The one secret that I have had — the secret con- 
nected with my unaccounted-for and inopportune ab- 
sences — I am’ at length free to communicate to you. I 
shall take the present opportunity of doing so. And 
after to-day, dear little wife, I hope and trust that there 
may never be the shadow of a secret or a suspicion 
between us.” 

“ I know there will not be suspicion ; there never has 
been, and there never can be, dear Gerald,” she mur- 
mured shyly, lifting her soft, brown eyes, full of loving 
faith, to his eyes that were looking so earnestly upon her. 

“Your sweet trust is very precious to me, child. 
Now, to confirm it, I will give you, as I am at length 
free to do, the simple explanation of my ‘mystery.’ 
You have now and then heard some slight allusion 
made to a criminal trial that has been occupying the 
Washington court for the last few weeks and which has 
been brought to a close only within a few days ?” 

“ Yes — the trial of Lackland for the murder of Buck- 
hurst,” murmured Gertrude, in the grave tone and with 
the awe-stricken look with which youth and innocence 
speak of crime. 

“ That is it. It has seemed to me, Gertrude, such an 
irony in fate that those nearest and dearest to me 
should have taken so little interest in an event of such 
vital mordent to myself and to others with whom they 
were nearly connected ; that they could have forgotten 
it or only remembered it when brought to their atten- 
tion by the newspapers ; then that they should have 
spoken of it lightly, as of any other item of general 
news, and dismissed it from their minds so readily, 
while every development of the case was to me a sub- 
ject of the most painful anxiety.” 

“ But your friends in Wilde County did not know, or 


212 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. ' 


even suspect, that you felt the least personal interest in 
it — did they ?” gravely inquired Gertrude. 

“ Certainly not. It does not, however, seem the less 
strange to me on that account. Perhaps it even seemed 
the more so. We are contradictory and inconsistent 
creatures, Gertrude, especially when we are placed in 
abnormal, difficult and trying positions. That trial, 
Gertrude, and the events that led to it, were the very 
causes of my enforced absence from the side of Miss 
Geraldine Fitzgerald on the day that I had promised to 
meet her ; that trial and the events that led to it were 
also the causes of my enforced silence on the subject of 
that absence.” He paused, and Gertrude waited silently 
for him to resume. He seemed to find some difficulty 
in doing so. At length he spoke : “ My child, I do not 
wish to shock your pure and gentle spirit with the de- 
tails of this terrible tragedy. Some knowledge of it you 
must have gathered from report. You know that a jeal- 
ous lover, a grave man of middle age, whose passions 
should have been under better control, shot and killed 
his younger and more favored rival — do you not ?” 

“ Yes,” murmured the young wife, in a very low, sad 
tone. 

“ But what you did not know, Gertrude, was the con- 
nection that I and my young relative, Sallust Rowley, 
had with that terrible tragedy.” 

“ No, oh, no, I did not know that,” breathed Gertrude, 
in a scarcely audible tone. 

“ I had better tell you from the beginning, my child ; 
but I must spare you as much as possible all unfitting 
and distressing particulars.” 


A siren’s work. 


213 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A siren’s work. 

So she assures her lover with a smile, 

Renews her vows — but only to beguile, 

Under a flattering face as false as hell, 

As fair as hers, through whom a hero fell. 

— Anon. 

“ It was while I was in command of old Fort Terror, 
on the Indian frontier, that I first met Adam Lackland. 
He arrived at the fort one morning- with a company of 
young Englishmen, come out there — poor babies ! — to 
hunt the buffalo. 

“ My narrative has nothing farther to do with the lads 
— they left the fort on the next morning, and whether 
they got trampled to death by the bison, hugged by the 
grizzlies or scalped by the Indians, or whether they all 
returned safely to their anxious parents, I cannot tell 
you. I never heard of them again. 

“ Lackland remained at the fort, Gertrude. Whether 
it was from his accidental likeness to my dear father, as 
I remembered my father in his earlier manhood, or 
whether it was from his cultivated mind and pleasing 
manners, so rarely to be found combined in a back- 
woodsman, as he seemed to be, or whether it was from 
all these causes together, I cannot tell you. But I know 
that my first meeting with Lackland gave me a very 
favorable impression of him, and that our subsequent 
acquaintance deepened into friendship. 

“ He was at that time a very handsome man of about 
forty years of age, with a tall, stalwart form, fine, regu- 
lar features, very dark complexion and jet-black hair 
and beard, both of which he wore long and flowing ; in 


214 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


a word, he was like my father in my father’s maturity. 
You have seen Maurice Fitzgerald, and you know that 
he was very handsome, even in his age. 

“ I invited Lackland to remain at the fort as my guest, 
and to share my quarters, which he did ; and without 
effort or obtrusiveness he made himself very agreeable 
to us all, as well as very useful to myself. On the 
famous rising of the Comanches and Apaches, he did 
good service with us against them. 

During the year that he passed with us at Fort Ter- 
ror, he attached himself to me, with the devotion of a 
father, although, indeed, he could not have been more 
than ten years my senior. But in all this time I learned 
nothing of his history beyond this, that he had lost his 
wife and his only child by a catastrophe that had hap- 
pened many years ago, and of which he could not bear 
to speak. Since that awful bereavement he had been a 
lonely wanderer over the face of the earth. He had 
spent the last five years on the Western plains. 

“ He seemed to possess ample means, for he denied 
his friends nothing, often lending them money in large 
sums and making them valuable presents, for which he 
would send, as opportunity offered, to the great cities. 

“ When, at length, we had ‘ conquered a peace,’ and 
all danger to the frontier settlers from the Indians of 
the plains was over, I wrote to Washington asking to 
be relieved and tendering my resignation to the govern- 
ment. In due time I received leave of absence for six 
months, but my resignation was not then accepted. 

“When I started for Washington, Lackland accom- 
panied me. On our arrival at the seat of government, 
we took rooms at the same hotel for the few days that 
I was detained in the city, while making my report to 
the secretary of war. 

“When I was about to leave Washington for Virginia, 


A siren's work. 


215 


I invited Lackland to accompany me to the Summit as 
my guest. He thanked me, but declined the invitation. 
We left the hotel on the same day — ^he to go to a private 
boarding-house kept by a widow named Dalle, I to set 
out for my home. 

During the few weeks that I spent at the Summit, I 
heard nothing of Lackland. He had told me plainly at 
parting that he was a poor letter-writer, and so there 
was no epistolary correspondence between us. 

“ At the end of six weeks I returned to Washington. 
My resignation had not even then been accepted ; my 
business at the seat of government was to urge that it 
might be acted upon as speedily as possible. 

“ I found Lackland still at his private boarding-house, 
and very glad to see me. But a great change had come 
over my rough, hirsute friend. His long, black beard 
was as full and flowing as ever, but his black hair was 
trimmed and arranged, and instead of his backwoods 
costume he wore the conventional dress of a gentleman 
of the nineteenth century ; and if he was not much 
handsomer than before, he was certainly much more 
civilized in personal appearance. 

“ The cause of this transflguration was a girl — the 
daughter of the landlady. My dear Gertrude, this Miss 
Dalle was, in my opinion, a very commonplace and 
uninteresting young woman, and one whom time proved 
to be weak and unprincipled. Yet, because of late years 
he had seen so few women — poor soul ! — and because 
she was the only young woman in the house, and he 
was brought in daily and hourly contract with her, he 
fell in love with all the flerce passion of his nature and 
his age — yes, his age, Gertrude? I see you look up 
with surprise, for you remember I told you Lackland 
was over forty ; but mark you, child, as the heat of 
midday is greater than that of morning ; as the heat 


216 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


of midsummer is greater than that of spring, so are 
the affections of mid-life stronger than those of youth. 

“ In the six weeks that he had spent in Mrs. Dalle’s 
house he had courted the girl, and she had from the 
first encouraged him. He told me, in a happy burst of 
confidence, that he had proposed for her and had been 
accepted, and that their marriage was to take place in 
one month from that time. 

“Yet, Gertrude, I had not been in the city ten days 
before I saw that something had occurred to give 
trouble to my friend. This trouble increased from day 
to day. He became as another man ; he was silent and 
sullen or wild and excitable by turns. He grew pale, 
thin and haggard. There were times when I feared 
for his reason or his life. Yet he never complained, 
or gave me a hint as to the cause of all this. If I had 
been a frequent visitor at his boarding-house, I might 
have made the discovery for myself ; but I was not. 
He was the sort of man that one could not easily ques- 
tion ; yet, at last, I did question him. 

“ ‘ What is your trouble. Lackland ? Can I do any- 
thing for you? If so, command me as a son,’ I said 
to him one morning when he came into my room at 
Fuller’s and without so much as a word of greeting 
threw himself down in a chair and buried his face in 
his hands. 

“ ‘ My trouble is unutterable, and you can do nothing 
for me but — to be as silent upon the subject as I am 
myself,’ he answered, in words that sealed my lips. 

“ And then he arose and sauntered out of the room 
as strangely as he entered it, like one walking in his 
sleep. 

“ That day, Sallust Rowley came from his college 
for the midsummer vacation, and joined me in Wash- 
ington with the intention of going down with me to 


A siren’s work. 


217 


Virginia. For the few days that we remained in the 
city, young Rowley saw a great deal of my friend 
Lackland, and became very much interested in him and 
his unspoken trouble, for my room at Fuller’s was the 
refuge of this most unhappy man, where he would 
come at any hour of the day, and throw himself down 
on chair or sofa in a fit of silent despair. 

“ At length Sallust, with the enterprising curiosity of 
youth, determined to investigate for himself, and took 
to visiting Lackland at his bparding-house. One night 
the boy came to me, and said : 

“ ‘ I have found out all about it. It is that girl he is 
engaged to be married to carrying on like a house afire 
with a new boarder, a young fellow named Buckhurst. 
She ’s a /i7nd / She ’d carry on with me, too, if I ’d let 
her. What do you think ? This evening, while I was 
there, they were both sitting side by side on the sofa 
up against the front windows, and the shutters were 
open, and he had his arm on the back of the sofa be- 
hind her shoulders. I call that hugging. I was so dis- 
gusted at such behavior that I got up and said good 
night and *came away. But what do you think ? On 
the outside I saw Lackland walking up and down the 
pavement like a distracted man. He could see every- 
thing going on in that room. So could I ; for as I 
looked up at the window I saw Buckhurst kiss her. 
They were alone, but they seemed to have forgotten 
that the window-shutters were open. Tell you what, 
that man means mischief ! If you have got any influ- 
ence over him, you had better use it !’ 

“ The words of Sallust made me very thoughtful. . I 
understood now the whole cause of Lackland’s trouble. 
I only wondered that I had not discovered it before. I 
saw, too, that he was in a dangerous frame of mind. It 
was difficult to interfere, yet I determined to do it. 


218 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ It now lacked but a few days of the time when I 
and my groomsman were to go down to Virginia. I 
went, the morning after my conversation with Sallust, 
to call on Lackland, and invite him to accompany me 
down to Wilde County. I was fortunate in finding him 
at home ; but again he declined my invitation, adding : 

“ ‘ It is very kind of you to ask me, Fitzgerald ; I 
appreciate your motive, and I thank you ; but nothing 
on earth would induce me to leave Washington at this 
time.’ 

“‘You can easily go with me, spend a few days and 
get back a week before your wedding-day,’ I said. 

“ I knew I was venturing upon dangerous ground ; 
but I did it as an experiment. 

“ ‘ My wedding-day. Yes,’ he said, grimly. Then re- 
verting to his first answer, he repeated : ‘ Nothing on 
earth should induce me to leave Washington at the 
present time.’ 

“No words of mine could move him from his resolu- 
tion, and in this resolution, Gertrude, he sealed his own 
fate. 

“ He was very much to be pitied as well a*s to be con- 
demned, for he was madly, fatally in love with the 
weak, unprincipled girl, who, on the very eve of her 
marriage with him, was falsely and coldly abandoning 
him for another and less worthy man. And if at this 
time he was not actually insane, he was, like Othello, 

“ ‘ Perplexed in the extreme.’ 

“Yet he must have been mad, for he slew his rival, 
and would have slain himself had he not been pre- 
vented. But all this you have heard.” 

“Yes, all that I have heard,” sighed the sympathizing 
listener. 

“ What you have yet to learn, however, is that Sallust 


A siren’s work. 


219 


Rowley was an eye- and ear- witness to the whole horrible 
tragedy, and that I came very near being the same.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Gertrude, with an irrepressible 
shudder. 

“The day succeeding my last unavailing interview 
with poor Lackland w’as the day upon which Sallust and 
myself were to start for Wilde County. We intended to 
take the steamboat Columbia^ between Washington and 
Richmond, that would leave the Sixth Street wharf at 
three that afternoon. 

“ About two o’clock young Rowley and myself left our 
hotel and took a hack to drive to our boat. We went 
down Pennsylvania Avenue, from Fifteenth Street to 
Sixth, and then crossed to drive down Sixth Street to 
the steamboat landing. 

“ Now, Sixth Street, south, is by no means a crowded 
thoroughfare — quite the contrary ; flanked by many 
vacant lots and a few scattered dwelling-houses, its side- 
walks are often quite solitary. 

“ As we bowled along at a good pace, I sat back in my 
seat, thinking of the strange, unhappy man I had taken 
leave of on the night before. Sallust sat with his head 
out of the right-hand window, staring at the scattered 
dwellings, I suppose, for there was nothing else to see. 

“ While we were driving on in this way through the 
quiet neighborhood, suddenly we came point-blank upon 
the terrible tragedy. Gertrude, all real tragedies come 
unexpectedly, ‘ in the twinkling of an eye.’ They are 
thunderbolts falling from a clear sky. 

“ We had just reached the corner of Maryland Avenue 
when we were startled by the loud report of a pistol 
near at hand — so near that our horses reared, and Sal- 
lust fell back from the window as if he had been shot. 
But the next instant he looked out again, while a second 
and a third pistol was fired in quick succession. Then 


220 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 


came the rush of many feet in one direction. Our 
horses were still rearing and struggling. Again Sallust 
fell back in the carriage, this time exclaiming : 

“ ‘ Great Heaven, it is Lackland ! He has killed Buck- 
hurst ! I saw him do it !’ 

“ I pushed the door on my side open and jumped out 
into the street. Sallust sprang out through his door to 
the sidewalk. All this happened in less than one min- 
ute from the firing of the first shot. 

“ Standing in the street, I looked forward and saw a 
small group of people collected around a fallen man 
and uttering exclamations of horror. 

“ Then, quick as lightning, the gathering of a crowd 
of people swarming to the spot from all directions, and 
more cries, shrieks and exclamations, but not a police- 
man to be seen in the whole lot ! And then once more 
the voice of Rowley in my ear : 

“ ‘ Good gracious, Gerald, I saw and heard it all ! I 
wish I had been blind and deaf before I saw and heard 
it all ! Poor devil, I am very sorry for him. See here, 
Gerald, I can’t stay and be a witness against him ! I 
must make off.’ V 

“ ‘No, you must not, either, if you please, sir. You 
will be wanted to testify in this case,’ said a policeman, 
who at last made his appearance, laying his hand on my 
shoulder, while Sallust disappeared in the confusion. 

' “ If I have any presence of mind, I showed it then by 
holding my tongue and allowing the astute officer of the 
law to detain me, though I had really seen nothing of 
the shooting but had only heard the report of fire-arms 
in common with the hundreds of persons who had gath- 
ered to the spot. I let them hold me, who knew noth- 
ing, in place of Sallust Rowley, who knew all, because 
while my testimony could not hurt the unhappy man, 
that of Sallust Rowley would have ruined him.” 


A SIREN S WORK. 


221 


*^And that was the reason,” murmured Gertrude, 
“ why Mr. Sallust Rowley rushed down to Wilde County 
in such hot haste on the night of the 15th of July?” 

“Yes, and the reason also why I remained behind 
and failed to keep my appointment with Miss Fitzgerald 
at the Summit. 

“ I was held by the authorities until the inquest was 
over. The coroner was summoned immediately. He 
viewed the ground where the body had fallen and then 
ordered the body removed to the nearest police station- 
house, where he followed it to summon a jury. 

“ Lackland never attempted to escape. He passively 
allowed himself to be taken into custody. The next 
day the inquest was held. It occupied two days. Red 
tape only knows why, . when it need not have taken 
more than two hours. I was one of the first and again 
one of the last witnesses examined ; but my testimony 
was considered so unimportant that I was not required 
to enter into any recognizance for my appearance at 
court as a witness for the prosecution in the impending 
trial of Lackland for the murder of Buckhurst. I was 
allowed to depart in peace. 

“The first use I made of my liberty was to begin 
rapid preparations for my return to Virginia. 

“On the day after the inquest I set out for Wilde 
County and arrived at home, still under the impression 
that, by my silence under detention, I had shielded Sal- 
lust Rowley from the pursuit of officers with a subpoena 
and had saved the wretched Lackland from a fatal 
witness against him. I thought it necessary still to 
shield and save both the witness and the homicide. It 
was therefore that I felt compelled to keep an absolute 
silence on the subject of my slight connection with that 
tragedy. 

“ It was many days after that I learned that the law 


222 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


officers had really been down to Wilde County in pur- 
suit of Sallust Rowley, who had eluded them only by 
flying the country. 

“ And now, my dear Gertrude, I having explained the 
cause of my absence and silence in that crisis of my 
fate, you will wonder why we, Sallust Rowley and my- 
self, should have sympathized so strongly with the 
homicide ?” 

Gertrude nodded gravely in response. 

“ My child, much more explanation would scarcely be 
fit for your ears. But this I will assure you, that Lack- 
land was no common criminal, no blood-thirsty assassin, 
nor were his wrongs common wrongs.” 

Gertrude shuddered and hid her face in her hands. 

“No man,” continued Gerald, “should ever, under 
any provocation, dare to take the law into his own 
hands. But if ever a man were justified in doing so. 
Lackland was.” 

“ Yet he was convicted of murder in the first degree !” 

“Yes, he was convicted ; because the woman whom 
he loved and lost happened to be his betrothed bride 
and not his wedded wife. If she had been his wife, 
whom he avenged, he would have been acquitted and 
vindicated with ^clat. Ah, well ! He will have a new 
trial, with, I hope, a better result !” 

“And the wretched girl who brought all this woe 
upon him ?” sighed the young wife. 

“ Oh, she has come to her senses, as all wretched sin- 
ners do when it is too late — if it is ever too late ! She 
has been very penitent and has been constant in her 
attendance upon him in his cell. He has forgiven her ! 
Oh, the Christ-like tenderness of that forgiveness ! It 
was she who came for me on that first night of my ab- 
sence from you. She asked me to go and spend the 
night with Lackland in his cell. It was supposed that 


LONDON. 


m 


that night would have been his last, as the execution 
had been appointed for the next day. The poor girl 
was in an agony of anxiety lest the prison doors should 
be closed against us both before we could reach it, and 
so she hurried me off before I could write a note to 
you. And though I took a hack and drove rapidly, we 
barely reached the jail in time to be admitted.” 

“ How did she know that you had arrived ?” inquired 
Gertrude. 

“ In going from her mother’s house toward the prison, 
she passed the hotel, and saw me through the lighted 
windows of the reading-room. Knowing that it would 
be a sort of comfort to Lackland to have me with him 
on that last night, she came in immediately and made 
her petition. I could not deny it, Gertrude. Indeed, 
the thought of you alone was my only reason for hesi- 
tation. I sent you a note back by a messenger, which 
you should have received the same night, but did not 
get until the next morning. However, that is past. I 
spent the night with the poor soul in his cell. The next 
morning his reprieve arrived. I feel sure that reprieve 
is only the forerunner of a new trial, which will termi- 
nate in his honorable acquittal.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

LONDON. 

Are we not one ? Are we not joined by Heav’n ? 

Each interwoven with the other’s fate ? 

Are we not mixed, like streams of meeting rivers, 
Whose blended waters are no more distinguished, 

But roll into the sea, one common flood. — Aowe, 

Our friends were blessed with an unusually swift and 
pleasant passage across the ocean. 


224 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


On the night of the ninth day out from New York 
their steamer entered the Mersey, and landed at Liver- 
pool. 

Our travelers were fortunate in securing a good hotel, 
in which they found themselves so comfortable that 
they decided to remain in Liverpool for a week, to enable 
Colonel Fitzgerald to show his young wife all that 
might interest her in the city. 

They spent the subsequent days in sight-seeing. 

On Monday our travellers took the early express-train 
to London, and arrived on the afternoon of the same 
day. 

Here again our travellers were happy in finding 
apartments which combined comfort with elegance. 

After their very comfortable English breakfast the 
•next morning, Gerald remarked : 

“We have come to London, and indeed to England, 
at the wrong season, dear. Everybody is out of town, 
who can get out. We will defer our tour through 
England until the spring. Indeed, I do not think I 
should have brought you to London at all this season, 
had we not both wished to see Doctor Goodwin comfort- 
ably settled in his lodgings before leaving him.” 

“ Gerald, can we not in some way assist Doctor Good- 
win in his search for the lost girl — the lost woman, I 
mean, since she must be middle-aged by this time ?” said 
Gertrude. 

“ I have thought of that, dear. You know that I view 
this search in the light of a sacred duty, at the same 
time that I look upon it as utterly hopeless. During the 
few days that we remain here, while I show you about 
London, Doctor Goodwin, who has been here before and 
seen all these wonders, will employ the time in seeking 
out the people, or any of them who may be living and 
were engaged in that secret business of nursing the un- 


LONDON. 


225 


happy young wife and mother and concealing her child. 
For instance, this morning, while we go to the Tower of 
London, Doctor Goodwin will go to Islington to look for 
the private hospital in which Gabriel H addon’s injured 
wife was hidden for so many months. But remember, 
dear, he is looking for a house inhabited and used as a 
private nursery more than thirty years ago ; and when 
we reflect that such establishments are never of respect- 
able reputation or long continuance, we may judge how 
hopeless the good rector’s errand must be.” 

“ Who are you that prejudge a case ?” inquired Doctor 
Goodwin, smiling pleasantly, as- he entered the room. 
“ I by no means despair of finding the home and the 
doctor. Suppose, now, he was forty years old at the 
time he attended Mrs. Haddon ; he would be only 
seventy- three now, and may very well be living.” 

Gerald Fitzgerald lifted his eyebrows, but said nothing. 

“ Your fly is waiting, sir,” said a waiter, making his 
appearance at the door. 

“ Come, Gertrude, get on your wraps. Will you join 
us, Doctor Goodwin ?” inquired Gerald. 

“ Which way are you going ?” 

“ To the city — to the Tower.” 

“ Oh, then, no, I thank you. I am going in another 
direction — Islington. I shall take a ’bus. I know Lon- 
don, you see.” 

“ Very well. Take care of yourself, and join us at 
dinner at six.” 

“ Thanks. Here is our little lady. I will not detain 
you,” said the good doctor, as Gertrude reentered the 
room, dressed for her drive. 

In two minutes they were seated in their fly and on 
their way to the Tower. 

Gertrude enjoyed the sights of this ancient landmark. 
She never opened her lips, but dreamed on and on 


S26 THE REJECTED BRIDE. 

through the deepest, darkest corridors of history, and sC 
dreaming, passed out again from that haunted, horrible 
tomb and monument of past magnificence and cruelty. 

An hour’s fast driving brought them back to the 
Royal Cambridge, to which, however. Doctor Goodwin 
had not yet returned. 

Gertrude went to her chamber to change her dress 
for dinner, while Gerald went down into the reading- 
room to look at the evening papers. 

When the pair met again in their private parlor, they 
were soon joined by Doctor Goodwin, whose counte- 
nance betrayed disappointment before his speech re- 
vealed it. 

“ I see that you have not succeeded in your search,” 
said Gertrude. 

“ No ! I went to Islington and found Goldsmith’s 
Street and Gilpin Terrace, the address of the man who, 
thirty years ago, kept the private hospital. But, bless 
you, there was no trace of a hospital within miles of 
the place ! The site once occupied by the doctor’s 
nursery was now covered by a large modern building, 
used as a boy’s boarding-school, that had been in full 
blast for twenty years. The master, to whom I intro- 
duced myself, and to whom I told a discreet portion of 
my business, had never heard of the hospital or the 
doctor. He had leased the premises he occupied as a 
school and knew nothing about its antecedents.” 

“ Nor did any one else in the neighborhood, I sup- 
pose,” interjected Gerald. 

“ Nor did any one else in the neighborhood,” admitted 
the doctor. “ I inquired of the baker, the grocer, the 
chemist and the oldest inhabitant, without success. 
Thirty years make a difference in a neighborhood. But 
I shall go there again to-morrow.” 

“ Let me give you a piece of advice : Go to Scotland 


LONDON. 


227 


Yard and employ a first-class detective. Come, doctor, 
you give your time and trouble. You must let me do 
my part, by advancing the needful money to foot the 
bills. I hope you will accept this offer as frankly as 
it is made,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Certainly, with pleasure and with gratitude. Nothing 
is really wanted S(T much as money to prosecute this 
search,” replied the rector. 

While he spoke. Colonel Fitzgerald had stepped to a 
writing-table, where he busied himself for a few mo- 
ments, and then came to the rector’s side and handed 
him a few slips of paper, saying : 

“ Here, Doctor Goodwin, are a half a dozen blank 
checks on my London bankers. Brown Brothers, which 
you had better keep about you and fill up as you need 
to use them.” 

“ Thanks ! Suppose I bankrupt you, my dear colonek 
Signed blank checks are a great trust,” said Doctor 
Goodwin, gravely shaking his head. 

“ I will risk them,” answered Gerald, laughing. “The 
only doubt I have in regard to the matter is that you 
will not use them with sufficient freedom.” 

“ Remember, Doctor Goodwin,” added Gertrude, 
“ that the whole of the Haddon Ferry estate is security 
for any outlay of money in prosecuting the search for 
its heiress and that this is a case in which economy 
would be the worst extravagance.” 

“ Well spoken, little lady,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, 
patting her shoulder. 

“ Which all means that I must make your bank-notes 
fly,” exclaimed the doctor. 

“ Yes, that is it ; and now come to dinner,” answered 
Colonel Fitzgerald, leading the way to the table, upon 
which the waiter had just placed the soup. 

After dinner the good doctor went to pass the evening 


228 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


at the Polytechnic and Colonel Fitzgerald took Gertrude 
to Drury Lane Theatre to see Kean in Macbeth. 

The remaining days in the week were spent in a sim- 
ilar manner ; the mornings were passed in visiting 
Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Royal 
Academy, the Zoological Gardens, Buckingham Palace, 
Kensington, Windsor, Hyde Park, Hampton Court, and 
so forth, as per Murray’s Guide Books, and the evenings 
were spent in succession at the best places of public 
amusement. On Sunday, their last day in London, they 
attended divine service in St. Paul’s Cathedral. 

On Monday, they took leave of Doctor Gooodwin, en- 
treating him to spare no expense in prosecuting his 
search for Gabriel H addon’s lost daughter, a search that 
had hitherto been quite fruitless. 

There they took the “ tidal train ” for Dover, where 
they arrived in good time to secure the boat for Calais. 

Now it is not our intention to follow Gerald and Ger- 
trude minutely in their tour over Europe. This is not 
a book of travels, but a domestic story — the story of a 
girl’s heart, and all in which that meek and loving heart 
was not vitally interested may be well passed over. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE serpent’s GAZE. 

For, only this night, as they stood there, I brought 
My own eyes to bear on her so that I thought. 

Could I keep them one-half minute fixed, she would fall 
Shriveled ! She fell not ! • — Robert Browning. 

The newly-married pair reached Paris in the height 
of the season. Through our minister there, they were 
presented at court and introduced to the best society. 

Gerald Fitzgerald would have loaded his little love 


THE serpent’s GAZE. 


229 


with jewelry and finery had not her meek spirit shrunk 
painfully from such extravagant display. She did not 
like diamonds, however highly they were prized by the 
grandes dames of fashion. Pearls and opals were her 
favorite gems, and Gerald ordered a beautiful set to be 
made for her by one of the most artistic jewelers in 
Paris. These pure and delicate gems seemed to suit 
her quiefe beauty best. The only approach to a brilliant 
set that she could wear was composed of aquamarine 
stones set around first in a circle of seed pearls and 
after in a circle of small diamonds — the whole suggest- 
ing the sea waves with their foam and sparkle. 

But Gerald Fitzgerald himself never knew how really 
elegant as well as beautiful his little lady was until he 
saw her artistically dressed by a French modiste. 

They spent two months in Paris, seeing everything 
really worth seeing, and going much into society, where 
the delicate beauty, native refinement and quiet grace 
of our little mountain girl enabled her to pass well 
even among the queens of fashion. 

Gerald was almost proud of his “ little love.” And 
Gertrude was very happy, with only one instinctive 
doubt and dread of the future, that found its expression 
in the half -breathed prayer : 

Oh, I hope — I pray that we may never, never meet 
Geraldine again.” 

Ah, poor child ! 

It was the last week of their stay in Paris. She had 
received an invitation to a ball at the Tuileries. She 
did not really wish to go, because she could neither 
dance nor waltz in the fashionable style ; and being 
young and beautiful, it seemed awkward and eccentric 
to sit and look on, all the evening. She did not wish to 
go, but she made no objection, because she knew it 
suited Gerald to have his wife appear there, and he had 


230 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


forgotten or never reflected that she had no accomplish- 
ments that would enable her to take part in the gayeties 
of the evening. 

She prepared to do him as much honor as she could 
by placing herself in the hands of her favorite modiste^ 
to be adorned for the occasion. 

And when the important evening came her dress was 
noticed as being one of the most beautiful though not 
one of the most splendid at the ball. 

She wore a tea-rose silk, trimmed with point-lace 
flounces and a point-lace over-skirt, looped with rose- 
buds ; rose-buds in her bosom and rose-buds in her 
hair ; on her neck and arms, her opals set with pearls. 

When she left her dressing-room to join her husband, 
previous to entering their carriage to drive to the pal- 
ace, she raised her eyes timidly to his to read in the ex- 
pression of his face whether he was pleased with her 
appearance. 

He answered her mute appeal by a smile of delight, 
as he drew her to his breast and kissed her, murmuring : 

“ You are a living poem, my little love.” 

Her meek face grew radiant as the face of a child who 
has succeeded in pleasing some one it loves. But the 
next instant a shadow fell upon it as she thought : 

“ I am afraid to be so happy. Oh, I hope, I pray^ he 
may never, never meet Geraldine again !” 

Was it a presentiment ? Was it that “ forthcoming 
events that cast their shadows before ?” Who could tell ? 

Gerald did not notice the sudden change in her face. 
He drew her hand through his arm and led her to the 
carriage, and they drove to the palace. 

The Tuileries was illuminated that night like a fairy 
palace. And, great as the crowd was, there was not the 
least hurry or confusion ; everything was conducted and 
managed with the most perfect order and ease. 


THE serpent’s GAZE. 


231 


Courteous officers received the guests at the entrance, 
and others showed them to dressing-rooms where at- 
tendants waited to give the finishing touches to the 
toilets. 

Our little girl was fairly dazzled and bewildered by 
the splendor and magnificence of les grandes dames^ 
even in the dressing-room. She scarcely dared to think 
what might become of her in the drawing-room, where 
she would have to make her courtesy to the empress ; 
or in the ball-rooms where she would have to meet all 
the queens of society at once. But we know that she 
was a meek little being, and so she hoped that no one 
would notice her in that splendid assembly. 

When Gertrude left the robing-room and took her 
husband’s arm to fall into the procession that was pass- 
ing into the drawing-room, she grew calmer, and when 
her turn came, she went through the ordeal of a second 
presentation to royalty with perfect grace. The grand 
suit of rooms, thrown open for the evening, afforded 
such ample space for the guests, that no inconvenience 
could be suffered from the crowd. 

Gerald, with Gertrude on his arm, walked from one 
scene of dazzling splendor to another, until they reached 
the great hall where the dancing had already com- 
menced. There they stood together for a while, looking 
on the dancers. 

While standing thus they overheard a conversation. 
Though it was carried on in French, Gertrude, who, you 
know, was a good linguist, understood every word. 

“ The last new — ” was the first fragment that met her 
ears. 

“ Who is she, then ?” inquired a second voice. 

“ She is a young foreign lady,” replied the first voice. 

“ And her name is — ” 

“ Feese-gerall. That is it — Feese-gerall/* 


232 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Gertrude winced and shrank closer to the side of her 
husband. Poor child, she was afraid that they were 
talking- of her. 

Gerald grew still as death and listened intently. 

The murmured conversation went on. 

“ Where is she, then ? Who brings her here ? Let us 
see this new wonder of the world.” 

“ She is the guest of Madame la Baronne de La Val- 
lette. They say she is about to be betrothed to Monsieur 
le Marquis d’lle. However that may be, she — la belle 
Feese-gerall — is the most beautiful woman that has ap- 
peared in Paris since the advent of her imperial majesty 
the Empress Eugenie,” said the last speaker, as the two 
moved away from the spot. 

Gertrude knew now that they were not talking of her. 

“ Did you hear them, Gerald ?” she whispered. 

“ Yes, dear, I did.” 

“ They mentioned some one of our name. Whom do 
you suppose they meant ?” 

“ I do not know, my dear ; probably of some English 
or Irish lady of that name. My dear Gertrude, the 
Fitzgeralds are a widely-spread tribe, to be found in all 
parts of the world and in every grade of society. There 
is the Fitzgerald who is the Duke of Leinster. There 
are other Fitzgeralds who are breaking stones in the 
streets, or serving out terms of imprisonment in the 
penitentiaries — all equally our cousins, my dear — all 
from the same stock, my dear — the Gherardini of Tus- 
cany, who went filibustering into Ireland somewhere 
about the eighth century, and thence spread like horse- 
radish all over the surface of the earth. This lovely 
guest of Madame La Vallette’s is probably one of the 
beautiful Irish Fitzgeralds.” 

For a few moments nothing was heard but the music, 
and nothing^seen but the dancers. 


THE serpent’s GAZE. 


233 


When the quadrilles were over, Gerald drew his little 
lady’s arm within his own and led her back through all 
the splendid rooms of the suite to the grand drawing- 
room, which was sparsely filled with guests, and where 
she sat down. 

There some of Gerald’s acquaintances found them 
out. Mr. Legare, our secretary of legation, came up, 
greeted Colonel Fitzgerald, bowed to Mrs. Fitzgerald, 
and immediately asked the honor of her hand in the 
next set. 

“ Pray excuse me. I do not dance,” replied Gertrude, 
gently. 

“ Not dance ? That is very cruel. Please let me 
hope that you will reconsider that resolution,” said the 
young gentlemen, with courteous earnestness. 

“ But I cannot dance. I do not know how,” answered 
Gertrude, with an ingenuous smile. 

“ My little lady has had a rather puritanical educa- 
tion,” explained Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Ah, well ; that is a pity. But we shall change all 
that, shall we not, colonel ?” rattled the young man. 

“Let us hope so, at least,” pleasantly replied Fitz- 
gerald. 

Other friends soon joined them, and an agreeable 
group was formed. 

They discussed the new beauty, among other subjects 
of conversation ; but no one seemed to know exactly 
who she was, though all agreed that she was the “ sen- 
sation ” of the evening. 

At length a French lady, a Madame Flores who had 
joined the group, speaking with authority, declared 
that the new beauty was a young Irish girl, a niece of 
the Duke of Leinster, and a near relative of the Earl 
of Clarendon, with whose countess she had just come 
to Paris. 


234 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


When Gertrude heard this she breathed more freely. 
She could not herself have told what was the nature of 
the weight that had been lifted from her heart, for she 
was not given to self-examination ; but still the latent 
dread of her spirit found utterance in the half -breathed 
prayer : 

“ Oh, I hope and pray that we may never again meet 
Geraldine !” 

The music of a beautiful waltz came floating softly 
on the air from the dancing-hall. 

Mr. Legare led off Madame Flores to join the waltzers. 
Other couples paired off, and Colonel Fitzgerald and 
Gertrude were left alone on the sofa. No young or 
even middle-aged lady, married or single, was left in 
the drawing-room. But few persons were present there, 
and they were quite elderly. 

“ I am sorry you do not dance, my little love,” said 
Fitzgerald, kindly, but with an air of chagrin. 

“ So am I, Gerald. It makes me seem out of place 
here.” 

“ It deprives you of much enjoyment,” said Fitzgerald, 
evasively. 

“ I do not mind that ; but, Gerald, I fear that my 
want of this accomplishment puts you under some con- 
straint. You dance, do you not ?” she inquired. 

Colonel Fitzgerald laughed, with a droll expression 
in his dark eyes. 

Gertrude read his countenance, wondering. 

“It was a part of my training at West Point,” he 
explained. 

“A part of your military training!” exclaimed Ger- 
trude, in amazement. 

“ Well, no, not exactly ; and yet I ’m not sure. ‘ There 
are tactics in love as well as in war.’ I suppose the 
dancing and waltzing, bowing and salaaming, and the 


tttE SERPENT^S GAZE 235 

rest of it, were the tactics of love, just as the drilling, 
parading and evolutionizing were the tactics of war. 
What do you think of it 

“ I don’t know. I think it all very frivolous — as a 
feature in a military education, I mean,” 

“ So do I, Gertrude.” 

“ But, Gerald, since you do dance and waltz, pray do 
not let me keep you here by my side. You know many 
of the ladies here. Find a partner as soon as you can 
and join the next dance,” she urged. 

“ Not I, indeed,” answered Fitzgerald, with a laugh. 

“ But why ? I am sure you dance admirably,” said 
Gertrude, letting her eyes wander approvingly over his 
fine figure. 

“ Why, in the first place, my little lady, without ex- 
actly accepting the Darwinian theory of man’s origin 
in the monkey tribe, I really do not feel disposed to 
illustrate it in my own person,” he answered, laughing. 

“ Oh, Gerald ! And yet you are sorry I do not know 
how to dance,” exclaimed Gertrude, smiling in her turn. 

“Yes; for dancing is graceful and beautiful in chil- 
dren, pretty women and young men. But I am quite 
an old fellow, little Gertrude. Did you not know it ?” 

“ No ; and, besides, I saw men with gray hair dancing. 
There was Prince I., and Marshal B., and the Duke of 
M., all ancient, gray-bearded men.” 

“ And all most eminently illustrating the Darwinian 
theory as I am not all disposed to do. And besides, my 
little love, since you do not dance, in no case would I 
leave you. Come, let us promenade awhile through 
these magnificent and splendid halls that remind us of 
nothing so much as of the fabulous descriptions of 
Oriental palaces in the Arabian Night’s Entertain- 
ments,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he arose and offered 
his arm to his “ little lady.” 


236 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Indeed, that is true of me,” said Gertrude, with a 
smile. “ Ever since I left Wilde County with you, 
Gerald, I have seemed to be living in a dream or 
in a fairy-tale ! When I think of the ferry and the 
boats and my old waterproof cloak and lantern, and 
then look around on this scene which might be a palace 
in the sun, and on myself with this beautiful dress and 
these costly jewels you have given me, I am reminded 
of Cinderella at the prince’s ball, and I almost expect, 
when the clock strikes twelve, to find myself — if not 
barefooted and in tatters, at least in my old waterproof, 
with the lantern in hand — going down to the boat to 
fetch some traveler across the river ! Are you quite 
sure it will not end so, my prince ?” she inquired. 

Fitzgerald laughed and pressed her arm as he 
answered : 

“ You absurd little Cinderella ! The clock has already 
struck twelve, and you are not changed. You are safe 
for to-night. And, now, as you are never to go back to 
that old life, try to forget it, my little lady. I will do 
all I can to make you forget it ; for I love you, my little 
love, I love you.” 

She could not answer, except by a grateful, wor- 
shiping look. 

“Oh, how good he is to me,” she thought ; “how good 
he is to me. Oh, how happy we are now ! How thankful 
I am ! I hope we may always be so ! If only Geraldine 
never crosses our path ? Oh, I hope, I pray^ that we 
may never, never meet her !” 

Suddenly, while these thoughts were passing through 
her mind, a shadow fell upon her spirit — a dark vision 
evolved itself from the shadow. She saw herself — ■ 
waterproof cloak, lantern and all, on duty at the boat- 
house. “ I shall go back to the ferry,” she murmured, 
to herself. “ I do not know when or why, but all this 


THE SERPENT S GAZE. 


237 


will change, and I shall go back to live alone at the 
ferry.” She shuddered so that Fitzgerald turned and 
said : 

“ You are chilly, dear. Let me take you into the neJct 
room. There seems to be a draught here.” 

He led her on to the next hall in the gorgeous suite, 
beyond which was the dancing-hall. They went near 
the latter and sat down. Again they overheard a mur- 
mured conversation, the subject of which was the new 
beauty whose ddbut in Parisian circles had created such 
a sensation. Indeed, this wonder seemed to divide con- 
versation with the Spanish succession and the German 
diplomacy. 

“ She is most certainly a superb woman. She has 
eclipsed the most brilliant belles of the season. The 
men are all infatuated with her — the women are all 
furious,” said one voice. 

“ But where is this masterpiece of nature, this marvel 
of beauty ? I have been trying to see her all the even- 
ing and have not caught a glimpse of her yet,” said the 
second voice. 

“ Wait here. She is waltzing with the Prince Napo- 
leon. Wait here until the dance is over and the dancers 
all come out this way. You will see her then on the 
arm of her royal admirer,” answered the voice. 

And then the speakers moved away and stood near 
the entrance of the dancing-hall. 

“ We shall see this wondrous beauty, too, Gerald. 
Would you not like to see her T softly inquired Gertrude. 

“ If she is one of our Irish cousins, yes,” replied Fitz- 
gerald ; “ but we shall see other equally interesting 
people. They will all pass us in leaving the ball-room.” 

At that moment the music ceased, and a general 
movement among the dancers announced that they were 
coming out of the hall. 


m 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Stand a little back, my child, and I will tell you their 
names as they enter,” said Fitzgerald, withdrawing his 
little lady a few steps back. 

“ Princess Mathilde and Prince Edward of Saxe- Wei- 
mar,” he murmured, as the first couple passed. 

“ Princess Metternich and the Russian minister,” he 
continued, as the second couple passed. 

Meanwhile, our little dreaming Cinderella gazed as in 
a vision, as these splendidly arrayed royal dames passed, 
each on the arm of her illustrious escort. 

“ Prince Jerome and Madame de La Vallette. Prince 
Napoleon and — ” 

He suddenly started and grew pale. 

Gertrude looked up and beheld — 

Geraldine Fitzgerald, in all her imperial beauty and 
. magnificence, advancing. 


CHAPTER XXL 

A FELL MEETING. 

There are some things, hard to understand. 

Oh, help me, my Lord, to trust in Thee ! 

I ’ll never forget her soft, white hand. 

Or her eyes, when she looked at me. 

And between us both, without and within. 

Stretched the yawning gulf of law — or sin ! 

— Owen Meredith, 

“ Yes, it is my cousin, Geraldine,” said Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, in a low voice, as he recovered his self-possession. 

A slight obstruction in the crowd, for a moment, de- 
layed their progress, and meanwhile Gertrude breath- 
lessly contemplated the splendid beauty, leaning lightly 
on the arm of the prince. 

Geraldine was magnificently dressed in a royal-purple- 


A FELL MEETING. 


239 


velvet robe, richly embroidered in silver thread and 
small diamonds, over a skirt of white satin deeply 
trimmed with point lace. 

She was literally blazing with diamonds. A dia- 
mond tiara crowned the rich black braids of her hair , 
diamond earrings pended from her small ears ; a dia- 
mond necklace rested on her rounded bosom ; diamond 
bracelets encircled her graceful arms ; a diamond clasp 
'Confined her girdle ; diamond clusters looped back the 
folds of her robe ; diamond starred pincers held her 
point-lace pocket-handkerchief and a diamond-studded 
cornucopia her fragrant bouquet. 

Her toilet was almost barbaric in its splendor. It 
might have been briefly described as a blaze of dia- 
monds on a purple-velvet ground. 

The slight obstruction in the crowd gave way, and, 
;still leaning on the arm of the prince, she drew near 
them, and to Gertrude’s unspeakable amazement she 
turned with smiling self-possession and addressed her 
cousin, saying : 

“ How do you do, Gerald ? I am pleased to meet you 
here.” 

He took the hand she offered and bowed over it, but 
could not speak and did not attempt to do so. The man 
in this case had less self-possession than the woman. 

Meanwhile, with smiling grace, she turned to the 
prince and said : 

“Will your highness permit me to present to you 
Colonel Fitzgerald, of Virginia ?” 

The prince and the colonel bowed simultaneously 
and they exchanged a few words of courteous greet- 
ing. 

Then Colonel Fitzgerald presented the little lady on 
his arm. 

The prince bowed deeply, uttered a few words of con- 


240 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


ventional politeness, bowed again to the pair and passed 
on with his beautiful partner to the drawing-room. 

Other distinguished men and beautiful women came 
pressing from the portals of the ball-room in an almost 
endless procession ; but Gerald did not name them to 
his companion — did not even seem to see them ; he was 
lost in reverie. 

Gertrude shuddered with a coldness that seemed to 
close around her heart. 

He noticed this at last and said, with much gentle- 
ness : 

You are shivering, my little love. Let us go on to 
the salon. It is much warmer there.” 

She assented by a silent nod and they turned and fol- 
lowed the crowd. 

Not a word was said by either on the subject of their 
unexpected rencounter with Geraldine. 

When they reached the salon, they found a very 
brilliant assemblage there, conspicuous among whom 
was the beautiful Geraldine enthroned on a sofa, a very 
queen of love, surrounded by her own court. 

It was a scene upon which Gerald Fitzgerald could 
scarcely look and live. 

He turned to his little wife and whispered : 

“ Gertrude, have you had enough of this ?” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, Gerald, quite, quite enough,” she mur- 
mured. 

“ Shall we go home ?” 

“Yes, if you please, Gerald.” 

“ Come, then,” he said, leading her toward the cloak- 
rooms. 

Half an hour later they had reached their apart- 
ments on the second floor of a handsome house on the 
Champs d ’Elysees. 

Jubal and Meta were both in attendance. 


A FELL MEETING. 


241 


Jubal turned up the gas and took his master’s hat and 
gloves. 

Meta relieved her mistress of opera cloak, fan and 
bouquet. 

Then both servants left the room. 

Colonel Fitzgerald remained standing by the front 
window, with his elbow resting on a marble pillar and 
his head upon his hand, lost in thought. 

Gertrude had sunk upon a chair where she sat, draw- 
ing off her gloves and painfully observing her husband. 

“ Yes, I knew it. I felt it all the evening. My pre- 
sentiment is fulfilled. He has met Geraldine ! He has 
met his evil genius, and our short-lived happiness is 
dead !” she sighed to herself. 

Yet she thought more of his welfare than of her own. 

Seeing that he did not move from his position, she 
dropped her gloves, arose, and went up to him, meaning 
to speak calmly ; but there her feelings overcame her 
thoughts. She clasped her arms around him and burst 
into tears, exclaiming : 

“ Oh, Gerald, I am sa sorry, I am so sorry 1” 

“ For what are you sorry, my little love T he inquired, 
gently, winding his arm caressingly around her leaning 
form, and looking down tenderly on her little sympa- 
thetic face. . “ For what are you sorry, little lady ?” he 
repeated, seeing that she continued silent. 

She did not answer at first, for the reverence in which 
she held him prevented her from saying : 

“ I am so sorry iov you." But after a moment’s pause, 
she replied : Oh, Gerald, I am sorry that you are not 

happy !” 

‘‘No one is quite happy, little Gertrude ; not even 
you^ who so much deserve to be. But, my little love, 
you must not let what you have seen this, evening dis- 
turb your own peace the least in the world ; nor must 


242 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


you dream that I would have our position in any respect 
different from what it is ; or that for one instant I regret 
the hasty act that gave me such a heart as yours, or that 
my judgment does not perfectly endorse, that act. Do 
you understand, little lady ?” he inquired, looking kindly 
into her wistful, tender, brown eyes. 

“Yes, I understand! But, oh, how I wish you were 
happy !” she murmured, tearfully. 

“ I shall be so, little one, never fear ; for I love you^ 
little love ! I love you^ and I would not change you, if I 
could, for any woman on earth or any angel in heaven. 
Ah, yes, it is true that I cannot yet meet Geraldine with 
unshaken nerves ; but never heed that, my little lady, 
for I would not, if I could, have our relations changed, 
even in the least particular," he added earnestly. 

“ Oh, Gerald, your words lift a weight from my heart ! 
Oh, how I wish any words of mine could content you as 
yours have contented me !” she murmured. 

“ Tell me, then, little lady, that not even to-night you 
have regretted that trusting ‘ leap in the dark,’ when 
you gave yourself to me ?" he gravely whispered. 

“ Oh, Gerald, no, no, no ! I have never regretted it. 
I never could regret it. No, come what might, I never 
could regret it ! I am yours forever and ever, and I 
would rather go out of existence altogether than to be 
anything else," she answered earnestly. 

“ There, then, your words have contented me, love." 

Her meek face grew radiant with delight, like that of 
a child who has succeeded in pleasing some one whom 
it loves and honors. 

“ But I think, little lady, we will leave Paris. Eh ? 
What do you say ? Have you had enough of it ?" he 
gravely inquired. 

“ Quite enough, Gerald. I am ready to go to-morrow, 
if you please." 


A PELL MEETING. 


^41^ 

** Very well. This is Thursday. We will leave here 
for Rome on Monday. This will give us ample time to 
procure our passports and to make all other prepara- 
tions. In the meanwhile, my little love, we will accept 
no more invitations, and we will send excuses for waiv- 
ing the engagements we have already made, for we do 
not wish to meet Miss Fitzgerald again in society.” 

“ No, indeed, we do not. 

“ That is settled, then. We go on Monday. And 
now, little girl, look at the clock I It is on the stroke of 
three. Time to retire these four hours. What would our 
worthy old neighbors of Wilde County think of such 
habits ?” 

The next day’s foreign mail brought Colonel Fitz- 
gerald letters that interested him deeply. 

The first was from a Washington correspondent, who 
wrote that the new trial of Adam Lackland for the 
murder of John Buckhurst had come on in the December 
term of the criminal court, and had resulted in the full 
acquittal of the accused, and that the verdict was re- 
ceived with popular favor. 

The second letter was from his agent in Virginia, 
who reported all affairs going on well at the Summit. 

The third was from Doctor Goodwin, who sent no 
news yet of the missing heiress, but expressed a fixed 
determination on the part of the writer to remain in 
London and prosecute the search, as long as a single 
chance should exist of final success. 

With this mail came also English and American 
papers, the latter containing a full report of the new 
trial and acquittal of Adam Lackland. 

On the appointed day Colonel and Mrs. Fitzgerald, 
with their attendants, now increased by the addition of 
a courier, set out for Rome. 

They traveled by easy stages, yet without stopping 


244 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


more than one night at any station, so that they reached 
the “ Eternal City ” at the close of the week. 

They stayed in Rome for some months, visiting all 
the notable places. Here Gertrude’s cherished wish, 
to be instructed in the accomplishments of a lady in 
her station, now found its realization ; for masters were 
procured for the little lady, who was so earnestly bent 
on making the best use of her time, that she made 
more progress during the three months of their stay in 
Rome than some young persons would have made in 
three years at school. 

On the I St of July they turned their faces north- 
ward and travelled by easy stages through Switzerland, 
Austria, Russia, Sweden and Norway. 

Coming back through North Germany, Holland, Bel- 
gium and the Netherlands, they entered France, and 
about the ist of September found themselves again in 
Paris. 

Here they settled down in their old lodging in the 
Champs d’Elysees, to spend the winter. Here also new 
masters were procured for Gertrude that she might 
continue her musical studies. 

They mixed moderately in society, where the young 
wife’s child-like beauty and simple grace won many 
friends, for she was a creature to win love rather than 
to command admiration. 

Gertrude had now been married for twelve months — 
twelve months of unalloyed happiness to her, with the 
exception of those two occasions, when the shadow of 
Geraldine fell across her path. 

In these twelve months she had wonderfully im- 
proved, both in person and in mind ; she had grown taller 
and finer in form, more intellectual in features, more 
self-possessed in manner, and yet had lost nothing of 
that child-like grace that was her sweetest charm. 


A FELL MEETING. 


245 


Good judges declared her manners to be perfect. 
Colonel Fitzgerald thought so too. 

“ It is better even than Geraldine’s/’ he said to him- 
self ; “ for Geraldine’s displayed too much hauteur and 
self-assertion to be perfectly well-bred. Hauteur and 
self-assertion would be ill-mannered in a queen.” 

But the soul of good breeding is, after all, good feel- 
ing. And our little lady’s good heart taught her the 
best manners. 

In all this time they had heard nothing of Geraldine, 
except strangely enough by their letters from America, 
in which all their correspondents spoke of Miss Fitz- 
gerald as being seif-expatriated from her native country^ 
living in France with her old school friend, the Baroness 
La Vallette, and being on the eve of marriage with a 
German prince. 

The same correspondents spoke of Sallust Rowley as 
still on his travels in Europe. 

And they often inquired of Colonel Fitzgerald 
whether he did not frequently meet Geraldine or Sal- 
lust, and they seemed to wonder that he should see so 
little of his relatives. 

But Gerald used to write back lightly that although 
they were all in Europe, yet as that continent was a big 
place they might be five hundred miles apart. 

From Doctor Goodwin in London they heard regu- 
larly, and in one of his latest letters he had spoken of a 
slight clue that the detectives had found which he 
hoped would ultimately lead to the discovery of Gabriel 
Haddon’s long-lost daughter. 

The Fitzgerald’s remained in Paris until the last of 
J anuary, when they agreed to go to England to witness 
the opening of Parliament, which was to meet early in 
February. 


THE REJECTED BRiDfi. 


^46 


CHAPTER XXII. 

IN THE DEPTHS. 

Obscurest night involved the sky. 

The Atlantic billows roared, 

When such a destined wretch as I 
Washed headlong from on board, 

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft. 

The floating home forever left. 

No voice divine the storm allayed. 

No light propitious shone. 

When, snatched from all effectual aid, 

We perished — each alone : 

But I beneath a rougher sea. 

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. — Cowper. 

On the I St of February, therefore, the Fitzgeralds, 
with their attendants, took the train from Paris to 
Calais, where they arrived early in the evening. 

They took rooms at the Dessin Hotel, near the sta- 
tion, and resolved to spend one day in this old historical 
seaport, so rich in associations of the heroic ages. 

After a good night’s rest and an early breakfast, they 
spent the forenoon in visiting the extensive ramparts, 
the ancient' citadel and the old Gothic Church of Notre 
Dame, in which, before Van Dyck’s great picture of the 
Assumption, Gertrude dreamed an hour. 

They returned to the hotel to a late dinner, afterward 
they got a carriage and drove down to the landing to 
take the evening boat to Dover. 

The steamer was waiting there, and the deck was 
already well covered with passengers. 

Colonel Fitzgerald conducted Gertrude on board and 
found a seat for her, though he himself as well as the 
two servants had to stand. 


IN THE DEPTHS. 


247 


Presently the steamboat dropped away from her pier, 
turned slowly and stood out to sea. 

The sun had set, but there ‘Was still light enough to 
see a long distance. 

It was not long before the short, choppy waves of 
the channel imparted a jerking motion to the boat, 
and soon our Gertrude was claimed as a victim of sea- 
sickness. 

Gerald took her down kito the cabin, where nearly 
every berth and sofa sustained the form of some sick 
woman. 

Seeing this state of affairs, he put a sovereign in the 
hand of the attendant, and so secured her attentions 
for his wife. 

“ I will try to find your maid and send her down to 
you, if she is not the more helpless of the two,” said 
Colonel Fitzgerald, as he left the cabin, after seeing 
Gertrude comfortably reclining on the sofa. 

He returned to the deck in search of Meta, whom, to 
his agreeable surprise, he found at length, not the least 
sick, but seated in the bows of the boat, with her hands 
stretched out right and left, holding on to the ropes and 
riding up and down with the tossing and pitching of 
the boat, with all the glee and delight of a child playing 
at see-saw. 

‘‘Ain’t this splendid, Jubal !” she was exclaiming to 
her brother, who was rolling and groveling in agony at 
her feet. 

“ Give me your hand, Meta. I do not think you will 
be able to keep your feet unassisted on this rolling deck, 
pleasant as you find it,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he 
helped her to reach the head of the cabin-stairs, and 
cautioned her to hold on to the stays each side in going 
down. 

When he had watched the girl safely into the cabin 


248 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. ‘ 


he returned to the deck, lighted a cigar, and began pac- 
ing slowly fore and aft. 

The last faint glow of twilight had faded out of the 
west, but the sky was wonderfully clear for the channel, 
and the stars were shining brightly. 

As he walked, he was suddenly startled by a long-lost, 
familiar voice breaking on his ear, with : 

“ Hallo, Gerry, old fellow ! This is never you 
Why, Sallust Rowley, where did you drop from ?” 
exclaimed Gerald, in the utmost amazement. 

“ Not out of heaven, you may depend on that. I got 
on the boat at Calais, of course. Wonder I didn’t see 
you before.’* 

“ The crowd was so great. But where have you been, 
Sallust, that your friends have lost sight of you for so 
long ?” 

“ Oh, I have been nearly all over the world. At least, 
I have been in the four quarters of the world. I went 
first to South America. Then to Europe. Then to 
Asia. Then to Africa. Last of all I came from Algiers. 
I passed straight through France without stopping and 
took this boat to Calais, intending to cross to Dover, run 
up by rail to Liverpool, and take a Cunard steamer to 
New York — for you see I am homesick, Gerry ; and, 
besides, I want to get back to Virginia, to a little girl I 
left behind me.” 

“ Oh, of course !” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald^ 
laughing. 

“ Now, you needn’t chaff, Gerry. This girl is no com- 
monplace young lady, I can tell you. She ’s a brick. 
She saved my life on one occasion, at the serious risk of 
her own, she did. She hid me in her house all night 
when the avengers of blood were behind me, and in the 
morning I engaged myself to marry her, I did. ‘ For 
my life I paid her with myself,’ as Jaffier says, in ‘Venice 


IN THE DEPTHS. 


249 


Preserved.’ And I mean to marry her when I go back, 
as I am in honor bound to do. Yes, and I will marry 
her — ‘though mammy and daddy and all gae mad,' 
as the song says. That is what I am going back 
to do.” 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, who, misled 
by the exaggeration habitual to Sallust, had not the 
most remote idea that the adventure to which he re- 
ferred was his flight from the officers of justice, or that 
the heroine of his story was Gertrude Haddon. 

“Yes, that is what I am going home for. I suppose 
it is perfectly safe to go now. That affair of Lackland’s 
has blown over by this time.” 

“ ‘Blown over !’ Is it possible you have not heard 
how that ended ?” 

“ Why, no How could I hear ? I tell you I have 
been travelling all over the world !” 

“ Well, there was evidence enough to convict the poor 
devil without yours.” 

“ Was he convicted, then, after all ?” demanded Sal- 
lust, aghast. 

“ Yes, he was, but don’t look so shocked ! He ap- 
pealed, had a new trial, and was finally acquitted.” 

‘‘ Thank Heaven !” heartily exclaimed Sallust. 

" It was a very popular verdict — the last one.” 

“ Yes, because it was a just one ! But now, Gerald, 
old man, where did you come from ?” 

“ I have been going over Europe with my wife.” 

“ What, all this time ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ So you are married. But, of course, I knew you 
were married, although I had not heard it. Besides, I 
saw Mrs. Fitzgerald when I first came on deck.” 

“You saw my wife?” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, 
in some bewilderment. 


250 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Yes, I saw her, and of course I was not so very 
much surprised to see you afterward.” 

“ Did you speak to Mrs. Fitzgerald ?” 

“ Who, I ? Not much ! I ’d as soon face a tigress as 
that fellow ! If you knew what an awful blowing up 
she gave me the last time I saw her, you would not 
blame me for keeping out of her way. I don't envy 
you, old man. And I can’t honestly congratulate you. 
So don’t expect it !” 

“ But, Sallust, you surely are laboring under some 
mistake. You do not know what you are talking about,” 
exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, in more perplexity than 
displeasure. 

Oh, yes, I do. I am speaking of Mrs. Colonel Fitz- 
gerald. And I am blest if here she isn’t coming straight 
toward us. I ’ll be off !’* cried Sallust Rowley. 

And with that the eccentric creature hurried away. 

Colonel Fitzgerald looked up, uncertain whom he 
should see in the lady advancing toward him. 

He saw Geraldine Fitzgerald ! 

He instantly took his cigar from his lips and cast it 
into the sea, and then stood before her, silent from un- 
speakable amazement. 

“ Thanks, Gerald. I see that you remember my dis- 
like to a cigar,” said Miss Fitzgerald, calmly sinking 
into a seat on the side of the boat. 

“ The act was instinctive. I should have done the 
same thing at the sight of any lady,” said Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, recovering his self-possession and bowing with 
cold politeness. 

“ Will you sit down, Gerald ? I wish to speak with 
you, if only for a few moments. It is for this purpose, 
to avail myself of this last opportunity, that I remain 
on deck, at this hour, after all the ladies of my party 
have retired to the cabin. Will you sit down beside 


IN THE DEPTHS. 


251 


me, Gerald, and give me five minutes of your atten- 
tion ?” 

He bowed again with grave courtesy and took the 
seat she indicated, and respectfully awaited her farther 
speech. 

What else, indeed, could a gentleman do ? 

Obscure as the light was, he could see the marble 
pallor of her face and the nervous quiver of her lips ; 
low as her tone was, he could hear, in every word she 
uttered, the pathetic tremor of her voice. 

He felt and knew that she loved, that she suffered, 
and it required all his firmness and self-control to 
maintain toward her the calmly kind demeanor he had 
prescribed for himself. 

“ Gerald,” she began, and then she stopped and looked 
up and down the heaving deck. “ Gerald,” she repeated, 
in a tone vibrating with emotion — “ Gerald, I hardly 
know how to begin to say — what I must say — or die ! 
Gerald, ever since that fatal night on which Satan 
mastered us both, and we parted in frenzy, I have 
longed to tell you with my own lips how bitterly I have 
repented my share in that madness, how terrible a 
penance I have imposed upon myself, and oh, above 
all, I have longed to' hear from your own lips that you 
forgive me !” 

And here the tender, tremulous, pathetic voice broke 
down in a deep sob. 

He was profoundly moved. He could scarcely refrain 
from taking the quivering white hand that lay upon her 
lap so near him. He could not prevent his voice drop- 
ping into tones of sympathetic tenderness, as he an- 
swered : 

“ Geraldine, if in any respect you have wronged me. 
Heaven knows that I forgive you as freely as I hope to 
be forgiven. And, Geraldine, on my own part I 


252 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


implore your pardon for my share in that mad night’s 
work,” 

“ There it is. You have it,” she answered, laying her 
hand in his. 

He clasped it warmly and carried it to his lips, then 
dropped it gently and sighed. 

She withdrew it to her own keeping, smiled sadly and 
said : 

“That is all, Gerald. With this reconciliation has 
come peace. That is enough. I am not here to revive 
the past. I would not awaken in your mind one thought 
inconsistent with your true allegiance ; for, with all my 
faults, I am a lady or ‘ long have dreamed so !’ We can 
never be more to each other than friends ; but let us be 
friends. Good night, Gerald, and good-bye !” 

She arose with the intention of leaving him ; but im- 
mediately sank back in her seat as a man brushed rudely 
by her, and ran on to the other end of the boat. 

Colonel Fitzgerald started up and whirled rapidly 
around upon the ruffian ; but the man had already pre- 
cipitated himself down the after-hatchway, from which 
a reddish vapor was now rising. 

“ Good Heaven, what has happened ?” hurriedly mut- 
tered Gerald Fitzgerald, to himself, all his thoughts sud- 
denly turned to an impending calamity, as he hastened 
toward the after-hatchway from which a volume of 
murky red smoke was now ascending. 

“ What is it ?” he demanded of another deck-hand who 
rushed past him, without answering. 

Red flames from the after-hatchway now lighted up 
the whole scene. “ In the twinkling of an eye ” a crowd 
gathered upon the deck. 

A man sprang upon the poop with a speaking-trum- 
pet in his hand, which he put to his mouth, tellowing : 

“ Close the hatchways !” 


A DOUBLE WRECK. 


253 


“ Oh, Gerald, Gerald, what is the matter ?” cried Ger- 
aldine, in great alarm. 

He could not tell her the truth, and he would not 
tell her a falsehood. He continued silent, but took her 
hand and held it firmly clasped in his own. 

Another passenger, less considerate, replied : 

“ The ship is on fire in the after-hold !” 

At the same moment vast volumes of flame issued 
from the hatchways, defeating all efforts of the crew to 
obey the officer’s orders and close them down. 

And the cry went up to heaven in a chorus of anguish : 

“ The ship is on fire ! The ship is on fire !” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A DOUBLE WRECK. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, 

Then shrieked the timid and stood still the brave. 
While some leap’d overboard with fearful yell, 

As eager to anticipate their grave. — Byron, 

Who falls from all she knows of bliss. 

Cares little into what abyss. — Ibid. 

“ The ship is on fire !” 

No more agonizing cry ever went up from earth to 
heaven, than that. 

The captain and crew, however, acted with coolness, 
courage and promptitude. ' 

There was one small mitigating circumstance at this 
awful crisis — the wind, which was dead ahead, blew the 
flames that were bursting from the after-hatchway to 
the stern of the ship, leaving the bows free even of 
smoke, and giving the terror-stricken passengers a brief 


254 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


respite from their final, awful choice between death by 
fire or by water. 

Here on the forward deck were gathered about three 
hundred men, women and children, awaiting their doom, 
with more or less fortitude, according to individual age 
sex or temperament. Some were screaming, some 
groaning, some weeping, some praying and others ex- 
horting their companions in misfortune to patience, 
hope and courage. 

Among these passengers also stood Gerald Fitzgerald, 
with Geraldine clinging to him, holding him prisoner, 
making it impossible for him to free himself, except by 
rudeness and violence. 

In the midst of all this was heard the order to get out 
the boats. 

And then every one understood that all hope of 
extinguishing the flames and of saving the ship was 
abandoned. 

At the same instant a voice was heard from an ex- 
cited Frenchman, who recklessly pushed himself through 
the crowd, wildly exclaiming : 

“ Ou^ donc^ est Mademoiselle Feezegeralle ? Ou, donc^ 
est Mademoiselle 

“ She is here, monsieur I For heaven’s sake take 
care of her, while I go and seek my wife,” cried Gerald 
Fitzgerald, as he recognized, in the anxious searcher, 
the Baron de La Vallette, the husband of Geraldine’s 
friend and hostess. 

'' Merci Dieu 1" exclaimed the Frenchman. 

“ Oh, Gerald, escape is hopeless ! May we not at 
least die together ?” hoarsely whispered Geraldine, 
clinging closer than before. 

“ I must save Gertrude ! She may be even now suffo- 
cating in the cabin. Look to the lady, monsieur^ s* il 
vous plait /” cried Colonel Fitzgerald, forcibly unwinding 


A DOUBLE WRECK. 255 

(jeraldine’s clinging arms and throwing her upon the 
baron’s protection. 

“ Soyez trayiqiiille^ chere Geraldine^ Monsieur le Capi- 
taine assures us that every one shall be saved,” spoke 
the voice of Madame de La Vallette, who now stood 
beside her husband. 

Meanwhile Gerald Fitzgerald plunged through the 
crowd toward the stairs leading down into the ladies’ 
cabin. 

He saw, and thanked heaven for the sight, that the 
cabin was comparatively free from smoke. He plunged 
with headlong haste down the stairs and looked around 
for his wife. 

The cabin was deserted by every one except Gertrude 
and her faithful maid. 

Gertrude sat upon a sofa, and Meta groveled upon the 
floor with her face hidden for fear in her mistress’s lap. 

“ In the name of heaven, why do you linger here ? 
Why have you not followed the other ladies up on 
deck ?” hurriedly demanded Colonel Fitzgerald, as he 
took his wife by the arm to carry her away. 

“ I waited here for you, Gerald. I knew you would 
come here for me. If I had gone up on deck I might 
have missed you in the crowd.” 

“ Come now,” he exclaimed, keeping hold of her arm 
and hurrying her up the stairs. 

“ Follow us ; keep very close to us ; do not lose sight 
of us, Meta,” exclaimed Gertrude. 

“ Yes, ma’am ! Oh, Lordy ! Oh, Lordy ! I ain’t afeard 
o’ dyin’ ; but I ’m afeard o’ bein’ buifit ! I never could 
’bide fire !” 

The flames had now broken through the main and 
after-hatchways, and caught the masts and rigging of 
the ship, streaming up into the midnight sky and light- 
ing up the dark sea for many miles around. 


256 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


The wind, still dead ahead and blowing a gale, wafted 
the flames astern, leaving the forward deck, crowded 
with passengers, still comparatively free from ^ heat and 
smoke. 

An awful silence had fallen upon the crowd. There 
was no more screaming, crying, groaning, weeping or 
praying aloud. All seemed waiting their doom in dumb 
despair. Only the voice of the captain was beard at 
intervals in low, stern tones, giving the orders to the 
men who were engaged in getting out the boats. 

Suddenly another sound broke the stillness — a cry 
from the man on the lookout : 

‘‘A sail! A sail!" 

“ Where away T 

“ On her lee -how !" 

Thank heaven ! Oh, thank heaven," was the re- 
sponse that went up in fervent exclamations from a 
hundred voices. 

“ Head the ship for the sail !” was the next order. 

But the engine had become disabled, and the ship 
could not obey her rudder. 

She sees us ! She is bearing down upon us !" cried 
the man on the lookout. 

This news was greeted by three cheers from the men 
on deck. 

It now became a question whether the passengers 
should take to the boats, or whether they should wait on 
the forward deck for the approach of the strange sail. 

There was a short consultation among the officers ; 
some thought the safest plan would be for all to remain 
on deck and await the sail which must soon be near ; 
others argued that the strange sail would not venture 
near the burning ship, so that at last, in any case, they 
would have to take the boats to make the passage be- 
tween the two ; and that to save time the boats should 


A DOUBLE WRECK. 


257 


at once be manned, and the women and children put 
into them. 

The delay consequent upon this consultation, brief as 
it was, caused the loss of many lives. 

Fate decided the question for the counselors. 

While they were still talking, a volume of thick smoke, 
accompanied by a suffocating odor of burning tar and 
followed by flames, burst through the forward hatch- 
way, in the very midst of the passengers assembled 
there. 

Then cries of anguish rent the air. 

Mothers clasped their children to their hearts in wild 
despair. 

Wives threw themselves, shrieking, in the arms of 
their husbands. 

Brothers and sisters clung together, grpaning. 

The agony of the moment was utterly indescribable. 

Then the order was hastily and sternly given : 

“ Put the women and children into the boats. Cut 
down any man who attempts to follow, until they are 
saved.” 

A prompt attempt was made to obey, but a scene of 
distress and confusion ensued that passes all imagination. 

Some of the women obstinately refused to leave their 
husbands, fathers or brothers, and had to be forced, 
screaming and protesting, to the larboard cuddy-port, 
below which the first boat was suspended ; other wom- 
en, with children, followed submissively enough, but 
weeping and in despair. 

Go, Gertrude,” whispered Gerald Fitzgerald, to his 
young wife, as he gently attempted to loose her hands 
from their clinging clasp upon his arm, and give her 
into the care of one of the officers charged with the duty 
of seeing the orders in regard to the safety of the worn • 
en and children carried out. 


258 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


But Gertrude only clung the closer, pleading, praying 
in half-suppressed tones, intense, vibrating with pain. 

“ Oh, Gerald, I wish to be quiet, to be reasonable ; 
but, oh, for the love of heaven, do not send me away ! 
I do not fear fire or water ! I fear nothing but the 
death of leaving you, the only death I think of !” 

“ Gertrude, child, there is no time to argue with you. 
You must go, and go at once ; so as not to hinder the 
officers in the execution of their duty ! Every instant’s 
delay endangers human life ! Go !” hastily exclaimed 
Fitzgerald. 

But she seemed to have no power to leave him. Her 
clinging hands were relaxed, and so were all her limbs, 
for she leaned heavily, helplessly, half swooning upon 
her husband’s breast. 

“Allow me, sir ; I will follow you,” said Fitzgerald, 
lifting her light form in his arms and following the offi- 
cer, attended closely by Meta and Jubal, both dumb 
with terror. 

Gerald carried his half -fain ting young wife through 
the crowd to the larboard cuddy-port, outside of which 
hung the boat already well filled with women and 
children. 

Gerald placed her in the boat. 

“ Have no fears for me, love. I am a good swimmer, 
and with the help of a hen-coop or a plank I could 
keep myself up for hours, certainly until the boats 
return or the relief ship arrives. Fear nothing, Ger- 
trude. In an hour, or less time, we shall be together, 
and all in safety on board the other ship,” he whispered 
hastily, as he put her in the boat. 

She seized and kissed his hand. 

He stood up to withdraw from the port, when sud- 
denly a volume of flame,- bursting up from the after- 
deck, threw a vivid red glare of light on the crowded 


A DOUBLE WRECK. 


259 


boat, revealing all the anxious, upturned faces, and 
among them that of Geraldine, pale, wild, beautiful, 
horrible, as was hers of the fable whose gaze was 
death. 

Gerald could not look upon it. He hastily waved his 
hand, turned and hurried from the port. 

The scene on deck was now, if possible, more appalling 
than before. 

The hatchways were all belching huge volumes of 
smoke and flame. The passengers, in wild consterna- 
tion, were flinging overboard every article that might 
be made available as a life-preserver, and then jumping 
after them. 

They seemed to have no alternative. They were 
enforced to make an instantaneous decision between 
risking death by fire or by water. Yet many lingered 
in agonizing doubt before they took courage to cast 
themselves into the sea. Had not the season been 
winter and their clothing heavy cloth, they must have 
been burnt severely by the swaying flames. 

At this moment a shout came up from the men on 
the deck. 

Fitzgerald rushed to the larboard side to see what it 
meant. 

It meant that the boat containing the women and 
children had been safely lowered and was on its way 
toward the other ship. 

“Come, Jubal ! Now is the time to show yourself a 
man ! Throw over your barrel and go after it,” said 
Colonel Fitzgerald, as he seized a long, broad plank, 
cast it into the sea and made ready to follow it. 

“ Misery loves company ; so here goes I” exclaimed 
another voice, pitching a hen-coop over. 

“ You here, Sallust ? Poor boy !” cried Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, as he recognized young Rowley. 


260 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Yes, I am here now, but I ’ll be there in a second ! 
Here goes ! Hurrah ! Follow your leader !” he gayly 
exclaimed, as he climbed up on the bulwarks, threw up 
his arms and leaped into the sea. 

His manner encouraged or maddened poor Jubal, it 
is hard to say which ; for with a cry like the roar of a 
wild beast he started up, seized his barrel, hurled it 
overboard, and with a loud hurrah, sprang after it. 

Colonel Fitzgerald paused for a moment, appealed to 
heaven, and then cast himself into the sea. 

A surging, heaving, boiling hell of waters, luridly 
lighted by the flames of the burning ship and peopled 
with hundreds of wretched, half-drowned human beings, 
holding on to whatever article they could catch to keep 
them up and struggling to the last for dear life — some 
in patient hope, some in wild despair, some loudly shriek- 
ing for help, some earnestly calling on the Lord. 

It was a scene that baffles description and passes all 
imagination — the midnight sky, the turbulent sea, strown 
with struggling, shrieking, drowning wretches, and the 
burning ship lighting up the whole horrible picture, as 
with the fires of Pandemonium. 

When Gerald Fitzgerald leaped overboard, with the 
impetus of his weight and heavy fall, he sank deeply be- 
low the surface of the waters ; but in a moment arose 
to the air and looked around him for his companions. 

Matters had got mixed a little. 

Sallust Rowley had been carried off to some distance 
on Jubal’s barrel. 

Jubal was floating after him on his master’s plank. 

The hen-coop was tossing on the waves a few yards 
off. 

Gerald Fitzgerald was a strong swimmer ; but pre- 
ferred to save his strength for an emergency, and to re- 
cover the hen-coop and support himself by it for the 


A DOUBLE WRECK. 


261 


present He struck out for it, but before he could reach 
it, it was seized by a drowning man, who clung to it in 
desperation. 

Fitzgerald would not dispute this support with a vic- 
tim so weak. He turned and looked around in hope of 
seeing some plank or spar to seize hold upon. 

, There was nothing. 

He was still bn the starboard side of the ship, but he 
struck out and, giving the burning ship a wide berth, he 
swam around the bows to search for some support on 
the larboard side. He passed in and out among the 
struggling, sinking, shrieking wretches, all holding on 
to such supports as they could find. He saw a large 
empty cask floating toward him ; he laid hold of it, but 
instantly the end was seized by a poor, fainting 
man. 

The cask could not sustain two, so again Gerald 
yielded his support to his more needy fellow-creature, 
and struck out alone for a spar that he saw tossing at 
some yards' distance, like a black rod, upon the crimson 
sea. 

He had but just recovered it when a third pallid and 
perishing wretch laid hold of it, crying, in piteous tones : 

“ For the Lord's sake, don’t strike me off, sir. I have 
no strength left." 

Strike you off, poor soul ! Take the spar !" exclaimed 
Fitzgerald, letting go his hold and swimming off. 

At that moment a cry of horror arose over all the 
tumult of the scene. Shrieks upon shrieks pierced the 
ear, as if at some new and more awful disaster. 

“ What, in the name of Heaven, has now happened ?’’ 
cried Gerald Fitzgerald, striking out swiftly in the di- 
rection of the sounds. 

Other men dropped everything in the way of a sup- 
port and swam in the same direction. 


262 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Meanwhile the most appalling shrieks and cries re- 
sounded through the air. 

“ Some men tried to climb on board the boat with the 
women and children, and swamped her 1” cried a voice 
from the crimsoned and surging waves. 

“ It is the boat containing the women and children 
swamped by a lot of cowards 1” shouted another voice. - 

“ The women’s boat is swamped ! The women’s boat 
is swamped !” was echoed and reechoed around. 

That was what had happened. 

The heartrending cries of the drowning women con- 
tinued ; some loud and piercing, some low and gurgling^ 
forespeaking death. 

Gerald Fitzgerald, half-maddened with horror and 
intense anxiety — redoubled all his efforts, swam around 
the bows of the ship and soon came upon the scene of 
the new calamity. 

The lurid flames of the burning ship, higher, fiercer, 
now than ever, lighted up the whole with the vividness 
of a conflagration — flashing upon the agonized faces of 
a hundred or more women, as screaming, praying, 
struggling, strangling, they rose and sank and battled 
with the lurid, suffocating waves. 

Horror-stricken at what he saw, Gerald Fitzgerald 
swam swiftly toward the perishing victims, calling 
loudly the name of his wife. 

“ Gertrude ! Gertrude ! Gertrude ! Where are you ? 
Answer me I” 

Oh, marster ! Marster ! Help ! Help !” shrieked the 
voice of Meta, who was struggling in the waves a few 
yards off. 

But the next instant, to Gerald’s great relief, a strong 
sailor seized the girl and saved her. 

Gertrude ! Gertrude ! Gertrude !” he called again. 

^‘Oh, monsieur ! Monsieur ! Save me ! Save me !” 


A DOUBLE WRECK. 


263 


cried the voice of Madame de La Vallette in an agony 
of entreaty, as her blanched face arose for a moment 
above the waves near him. 

He struck out toward the drowing woman, but before 
he reached her she was seized by Jubal, who was a 
strong swimmer. 

“ Gertrude ! Gertrude ; Gertrude !” he called again, 
with all the force of his lungs. 

And now he was answered from a short distance : 

Here ! I am here, Gerald !” 

“ Thank heaven ! ” he exclaimed, as he turned and 
beheld his heroic young wife keeping herself up in the 
water and supporting a babe that she had rescued. 

He struck out swiftly toward her. 

“Oh, my brave little girl! My brave little girl I 
So you have saved a child !” 

“ I had it on my lap when the boat swamped, Gerald. 
And its poor, poor mother sank at once and never rose 
again.” 

These words were hastily, breathlessly exchanged 
between the husband and wife as they approached each 
other. But as Gerald reached her side he perceived 
th^t her strength was nearly spent. 

“Give jne the child,” he said, “and then do as I tell 
you — ” 

‘ No, give me the child ! It is mine ! ” exclaimed a 
man, swimming up on the other side of the nearly ex- 
hausted girl. “Give me the child. Its poor mother 
has perished ; but, oh, young lady, may heaven bless 
you for saving it !” he added, as he relieved her of the 
babe and swam off with it. • 

“ My poor girl, you are nearly spent,” said Gerald, as 
he gave her his support. 

“Yes, the Straits of Dover in a gale are a little 
rougher than the Wilde. I could swim well on the 


264 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Wilde. I have swam across it,” answered Gertrude, in 
a faint voice. 

“ Now, attend to what I tell you, for your own safety. 
Do not clasp me so as to embarrass my motion. Do 
you understand, Gertrude ?” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, Gerald ! I know quite well what you 
mean. I will be calm and self-possessed, dear Gerald ; 
nothing can discompose me by your side,” said Ger- 
trude, firmly. 

‘‘And look there !” he cried exultingly. “The boats 
from the other ship are coming to our relief ! Courage, 
my little love !” 

“ Oh, I have courage ! I fear nothing, nothing, 
Gerald, by your side !” she answered promptly and 
cheerfully. 

Even at that moment she saw his face change horribly 
and felt him shudder through all his frame under the 
water. 

She thought something had stricken him and inflicted 
intolerable pain. 

“ Gerald, Gerald, dear ! What is the matter ? ” she 
earnestly inquired. 

He did not answer, but gazed, horror-stricken, spell- 
bound, upon some object ahead of them. 

Gertrude’s glance followed in the same direction, and 
she instantly saw the cause of his sudden disturbance. 

Geraldine Fitzgerald was floating there, clinging to a 
plank. 

At that moment, also, Geraldine saw Colonel Fitzger- 
ald, lost her hold upon the plank and, throwing up her 
arms in wild despair, cried : 

“ Oh, Gerald, Gerald ! Save me ! Save me !” 

At the same time, the plank that she had let go 
whirled around with great violence, struck Gertrude, 
and parted her from the support of her husband. 


AFTER THE WRECK. 


265 


Oh, Gerald, my love, my own love ! Save me, save 
me !” cried Geraldine, frantically. 

Gertrude did not call out for help. She silently, with 
failing strength, struggled with the overwhelming waves. 

Fitzgerald paused for an instant in agony — looking as 
if suddenly stricken with madness. 

“ Oh, Gerald, Gerald, my love, my only love, save me, 
save me ! I am strangling, drowning, dying in these 
cruel waves ! Save me !” gasped Miss Fitzgerald. 

He impulsively darted to Geraldine, seized her, and 
swam with her toward a boat that he saw advancing. 

Gertrude, silently struggling, abandoned to her fate, 
saw her rival rescued by her husband. She cast one 
long, sad look upon him whom she loved more than life, 
then ceased to strive, closed her eyes and sank beneath 
the waves. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

AFTER THE WRECK. 

When Marmion’s late remorse shall wake. — Scott. 

Here, sir, here !” cried the sailors, in the boat, as 
Gerald Fitzgerald, supporting Geraldine, swam toward it. 

Then the men, leaning forward, held out their hands 
to receive the almost lifeless form of the lady, whom 
they lifted and carefully laid in the stern, where she re- 
clined in her cold and wet clothing, shivering, shudder- 
ing, gasping, fainting from the terrible ordeal of the sea. 

Then they assisted Gerald Fitzgerald to climb on 
board, where he dropped into his place utterly exhausted, 
speechless, overwhelmed. 

The boat, one of the four that had been sent out by 
the relief ship was now full of rescued passengers, and 


266 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 


as there was not another living creature to be seen on 
the surface of the flame-lit sea, and not another voice 
crying for help to be heard, the oarsmen turned and 
pulled swiftly for their ship. 

One man on board that seemed a little less worsted 
than his companions found strength to inquire of the 
man at the tiller : 

“ What is the name of the craft that has sent out the 
boats to pick us up ?” 

“ The Mary Jane^ Smith, master, with a cargo of silks 
and velvets, from Havre to London.” 

“ We shall be taken to London, then. That is not so 
bad, after all. We might have been bound for Yoko- 
hama or Honolulu,” said the first speaker. 

And the conversation dropped. 

Meanwhile Gerald Fitzgerald sat, with his chin upon 
his open hands, oblivious of all around him, gazing out 
upon the now lonely sea, lighted up by the flames of the 
burning ship, and groaning in the depths of his 
spirit : 

“ Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude ! Oh, my lost love ! My 
meek-eyed darling ! Oh, my true-hearted, loving wife ! 
My betrayed and abandoned wife ! I failed you at your 
utmost need ! I failed you, traitor and murderer that I 
am ! Accursed and dishonored that I am ! How did 
all this happen ? What happened ? Gertrude — let me 
think — Gertrude was holding on to a part of my cloth- 
ing in a way not to embarrass my motions, and I was 
swimming to reach one of the relief boats. Then Ger- 
aldine floated by, clinging to a plank that she lost. She 
cried to me to save her. What happened then ? All my 
senses seemed in a whirlpool. I lost my self-possession. 
What next ? Was I so cruel, so mad, so idiotic, as to 
drop her ? Or, did she let go her hold ? How was it ? 
Heaven help me, I know not ! I only know that I saved 


AFTER THE WRECK. 


267 


Geraldine and left Gertrude to drown, accursed traitor 
that I am !” 

Geraldine, seeing his absorbed, despairing look, roused 
herself from her benumbed weariness, bent over him, 
put her arms around him and whispered softly : 

“ Gerald, my deliverer, my preserver, you have saved 
my life ! I owe my life to you !” 

He did not answer her or even seem to see her, but 
still groaned in the depths of his wounded heart. 

“ Gertrude ! Gertrude ! Oh, my little, dove-eyed 
darling ! Oh, my betrayed, deserted angel ! How 
could I have left you to perish ? How could I, accursed 
wretch that I am ?” and more bitter unspoken self- 
reproaches* of the same sort, while Geraldine contem- 
plated him in dismay. 

At length she again bent over him, keeping her 
arms around him and whispered earnestly : 

“ Gerald, dearest Gerald, why do you not speak to me ?” 

“ Be silent^ Geraldine he answered, in so deep and 
stern a tone that she shrank back, aghast. 

Their boat had by this time reached the side of the 
Mary Jane^ whose captain and mates were standing at 
the starboard main port, eager to welcome and succor 
this boat-load of shipwrecked sufferers. 

Many of the rescued passengers and crew of the 
burnt steamer were already on board, having been 
picked up by the three other of the four boats that had 
been sent out by the Mary Jane for their relief. 

Among these were to be seen Captain Grey and his 
officers. Monsieur and Madame de La Vallette, Jubal, 
Meta, an earnest Methodist preacher, a benevolent 
Catholic priest and the poor bereaved husband, still 
carrying in his arms the motherless babe that had been 
rescued by Gertrude and which was now well wrapped 
up in a large woolen shawl. 


268 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


On seeing Colonel Fitzgerald and Geraldine come on 
board, he at once recognized the former, but mistook 
the latter for Gertrude, and he hurried forward to con- 
gratulate them on their safety and to thank the young 
lady for her preservation of his child. 

But in the midst of his warm expressions of gratitude 
he suddenly looked up and perceived the distressed and 
humiliated expression of Fitzgerald’s face and the be- 
wildered and perplexed countenance of Geraldine, 
when, viewing her more attentively, he saw his mistake, 
and gazing from one to the other, said very deprecat- 
ingly : 

“ But I beg pardon. I really supposed that this was 
the young lady who saved the life of my motherless 
child. I am sure that you are the gentleman who was 
with her, sir,” 

Colonel Fitzgerald bowed silently. 

‘‘Where is the young lady, that I may thank her 
properly, sir ? I hope, I trust, that she is in safety ?” he 
anxiously inquired. 

“Yes, she is in safety. She is in safety; for she 
must, by this time be — in heaven !” replied Colonel 
Fitzgerald, solemnly. 

“In heaven,” softly, reverently repeated the man, 
pressing his rescued child closer to his bosom. 

“Yes, in heaven as sure as there is a heaven !” earn- 
estly repeated Fitzgerald. 

“ The young lady was a near relation of yours, sir, I 
suppose,” said the man, in a tone of respectful sym- 
pathy. 

“ She was my beloved wife,” replied Gerald Fitz- 
gerald, solemnly, tenderly. 

“ Aye, aye, ‘ one event happeneth to all,’ you see, my 
little motherless bairn,” murmured the man, dropping 
a tear upon his child’s head. 


AFTER THE WRECK. 


269 


Colonel Fitzgerald sighed but made no other reply. 

“ Sir, I am sorry for you^ not for her, for she was an 
angel fit for heaven ; but I am very sorry for you, sir,” 
murmured the man, bending his head over the face of 
his sleeping babe. “ Yes, sir, I beg pardon, but I am 
very sorry for you !” 

“You may very well be so, friend,” replied Gerald 
Fitzgerald, in a grieved and humbled tone, as he turned 
away his head. 

All this was very trying to Geraldine, especially as 
her own conscience did not hold her guiltless of Ger- 
trude’s fate. She could not bear to think of it or to be 
reminded of it. Least of all could she endure to see 
the grief, remorse and despair, on the face of Gerald 
Fitzgerald, or to hear the duet of Gertrude’s praises 
recited between him and his new friend. So she rather 
sarcastically interrupted the conversation, by saying : 

“ I think, sir, since you are so very grateful for the 
preservation of your child’s life, you must naturally set 
very great store by it, so I should advise you to take it 
down to the stewardess and have her change its cloth- 
ing, for it must be dripping wet from its ducking.” 

“Why, bless your thoughtful kindness, my good 
young lady,” said the unsuspicious man, “the baby is 
all right. It was the very first thing attended to when 
we got on board. The stewardess took charge of it, 
and the captain’s wife, who lives on board with her 
little family, lent a suit of baby’s clothes and wrapped 
it up in this shawl. Then I had to take the baby my- 
self, for they had enough to do to attend to the ship- 
wrecked women. However, as I only came up to look 
for the young lady and return thanks for my child, I 
will now bid you good night, and go down to see to 
changing or drying my own clothes. And, ma’am, let 
me return your good counsel and advise you to go 


270 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


down into the cabin to get dried and warmed. You 
will find lots of women there to help you.” 

“ I will do so,” for I am ague-stricken,” said Geraldine. 
Then turning to Colonel Fitzgerald, she added, “ Gerald ! 
I must go and find some women and change of clothing.” 

“ Oh, go Geraldine ! Seek your own comfort ! Take 
care of yourself,” he answered bitterly. 

At that moment also, the kind stewardess of the ship 
came up, took the sleeping babe, tenderly, . from the 
arms of its father, and invited the wet, cold and shud- 
dering women remaining oil deck to follow her to the 
cabin, where their wants should be supplied. 

Geraldine, with a gesture of wild impatience, turned 
and followed the stewardess. 

Colonel Fitzgerald and his new acquaintance were 
left standing aloneln their wet clothes. 

“Come, sir,” said the kind-hearted stranger, “the 
cabin is chockful of women and children. I am going 
to the cook’s galley. We ’ll find a fire there any way 
and can dry our clothes, if we can’t get a change.” 

“Thanks, friend. Go on. I will follow presently,” 
replied Fitzgerald. 

“ Poor fellow, he takes his affliction very haVd,” 
muttered the stranger, as he moved off. 

Gerald Fitzgerald, regardless of his wet and dripping 
garments and his cold and shuddering form — scarcely 
conscious, indeed, of his physical condition — went to the 
stern of the ship, leaned over the bulwarks and gazed 
out upon the scene of the great disaster — the midnight 
sea, strewn with fragments of the wreck and redly 
lighted with the flames of the fire-ship that had burned 
down now nearly to the water’s edge. 

“ Where did she sink ? What part of the sea holds 
her ? My dove, my angel child ! Oh, never, never 
while I live, shall I forget the look — ah, heaven, the 


Gerald’s soul sickness. 


271 


last look of her sweet dark eyes, as she turned them on 
me when she sank beneath the waves. She did not 
scream for help ! She saw me rescue her rival, and 
she closed her meek brown eyes and yielded up her 
young life.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Gerald’s soul sickness. 

Out of the day and night 

A joy has taken flight ; 

Fresh spring, bright summer, winter hoar, 

Move with delight my soul no more, 

Oh, never more ! 

Oh, world ! Oh, life ! Oh, time ! 

On whose hard hill I climb. 

Trembling at that which I had scorned before. 

When will return the glory of thy prime ? 

Oh, never more ! — P. B. Shelley. 

The Mary Jane set sail, and steered for the mouth of 
the Thames. 

Gerald Fitzgerald stood leaning over the bulwarks on 
the stern of the vessel, gazing on the scene of the catas- 
trophe, the sea strewed with fragments of the wreck, and 
luridly lighted by the dying fires of the burning steamer, 
now shining redly on the edge of the horizon, like a set- 
ting harvest moon. 

Soon the murky crimSon glow faded all over the sea, 
and nothing was to be seen but one long, bright line of 
light from the burning wreck on the horizon as it went 
down, drawing after it the light and leaving all in 
darkness. 

Still Gerald Fitzgerald stood leaning over the bul- 
warks, gazing on the scene, but seeing none of the 
changes taking place around him ; seeing nothing but 


272 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


the sweet, meek, dark eyes of Gertrude, as she closed 
them and sank beneath the waves. 

“Oh, my Lord !” he mentally groaned ; “how sud- 
denly a sinner may find himself out to be a devil ! Yes, 
a devil most accursed ! How could I let her perish — 
her, who was without spot or blemish of selfishness or 
sin ? Whose love and trust was so pure and perfect ? 
Ugh ! What is the use of thinking ? I am a devil and 
my proper place is — ” 

A soft hand was laid upon his shoulder, while a ten 
der voice murmured in his ear : 

“Gerald, come down and change your clothes, for 
heaven’s sake.” 

“ Well, well, Geraldine, what do you — what do you 
want ?” he inquired, in the bewildered manner of one 
only half roused from a hideous dream. 

“ I want you to come down to the captain’s cabin and 
change your clothes.” 

“ Why should I ?” 

“ ‘ Why,’ Gerald ? Because if you stay here you will 
get your death of cold.” 

“ I wish to heaven I could !” he answered, with great 
bitterness of spirit. 

“ Gerald, why do you act so strangely and speak so 
despairingly ? What is the matter with you ? Tell me, 
I beseech you,” said Geraldine, in an imploring tone. 

“ What ? Great heaven ! Don’t you know that I let 
my wife drown ?” he groaned, clutching and tearing his 
black beard. 

“ Tempted by me ?” inquired Geraldine, in a strange, 
low, deep tone. 

“ I know not ! I only know that I was mad or ac- 
cursed or both !” he exclaimed, with a stamp of fierce 
despair. 

“ Gerald, will you go down in the cabin and change 


GERALD'S SOUL SICKNESS. 


273 


your clothes ? For that is the first thing you should 
do.” 

“No, I will not.” 

“ Then, will you listen to me ?” 

“ I must if you insist on talking ; but I would rather 
you left me to myself.” 

“ I will not take offense, Gerald. You are not in your 
right senses this night ; you are mad. Yet, if you will 
listen to me, I have something to say to you.” 

“ Go on ! Go on ! One torment is no worse than an- 
other.” 

“ Hear me, then, first in my own defense.' When the 
boat foundered, I caught at a floating plank and kept 
myself up until I met you. I should have kept afloat by 
the plank until the boat from this ship could have picked 
me up if it had not been ior you 

“ For 7ne r 

“ Yes, Gerald, for you I You came near drowning 
me.” 

uy 

“ I tell you, yes 

. “ And how, pray ?” 

“ Very naturally, Gerald. In throwing out your arm, 
you struck the plank away from me and I could not 
recover it.” 

“Come, Geraldine, I struck the plank away from 
you ?” 

“ You did, indeed ! And I could not recover it, I say. 
You struck it with so much force, it whirled away from 
me, and in its turn struck — ” 

“Yes, yes ! Whom ?** 

“Your companion.” 

“ Gertrhde ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I did not drop her ?” 


274 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Most certainly not. You would be insane to im- 
agine so.” 

I thank heaven for that at least !” 

“ Now listen further, Gerald ! When you struck the 
plank away from me, I thought it but right that, having 
deprived me of my only support, you should give me 
yours ; and so I called out to you to save me.” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“ But listen further still ! I did not know that you 
had any one in tow, when I called out to you. Gertrude 
was on the other side of you and, of course, only her 
little black head was above the water. I did not see 
her until the plank struck her and threw her behind 
you.” 

“ You did not ?” 

“ No, Gerald, on my honor ! Even then I did not 
know who the drowning girl was, or that she was any- 
thing to you, much less did I suppose that she was your 
wife, and that you were in the act of saving her when 
the fatality of the plank parted you.” 

“ You did not know that, Geraldine ?” 

“ Heaven knows that I did not, Gerald ! I never 
knew it until I learned it by the conversation between 
you and the stranger on deck to-night. Of course, I 
could not speak freely to you before him.” 

“ I have wronged you, Geraldine, and I beg you to 
pardon me.” 

“Dear Gerald, your great trouble excuses every- 
thing,” said Geraldine, affectionately. 

“ You pardon me ; yet I can never, never pardon my- 
self. For I might have saved her, even after she was 
stricken off the plank ! I ought to have saved her then,” 
he groaned. 

“Gerald, hear me. I have something more to tell 
you, something that I hope will mitigate your self- 


Gerald's soul sickness. 


^75 


proach, if it cannot soothe your sorrow. You know, 
though I did not see Gertrude until the plank struck 
her, yet I saw all that followed. You could not have 
saved her, Gerald. No earthly power could have saved 
her. The blow from the plank was fatal !” 

Geraldine ! What is this you tell me ?” cried Colonel 
Fitzgerald, in a piercing voice. 

“ The truth, oh, Gerald ! The blow from the plank 
killed Gertrude ! I saw the wound — it was n^ortal ! 
Ah ! It seems cruel to tell you, yet indeed it is merciful 
to do so ! The hack of her head %vas crushed in ! Oh, 
it is horrible ! But you see you have no cause for self- 
reproach.” 

Gerald Fitzgerald groaned and covered his face with 
his hands. 

“ You have no cause for self-reproach,” repeated Ger- 
aldine. “ It was a fatal accident — but it was an acci- 
dent. No one could have foreseen it or prevented it.” 

Gerald groaned, with his face hidden in his hands. 

“Grieve, if you must, dear cousin. Grieve, but do 
not reproach yourself, since you really have no cause to 
do so,” said Geraldine, gently. 

“Oh, my poor child, my poor, meek little Gertrude !” 
murmured Fitzgerald, but more tenderly, less bitterly 
than before. 

“ Gerald, dear, let me implore you to go down to the 
captain’s cabin and dry your clothes. Will you do so 
now ?” pleaded Geraldine. 

“ I will go,” said Fitzgerald, yielding to another's will 
rather than following his own. 

He then arose and walked wearily to the gangway 
and went slowly and heavily down into the cabin. 

Geraldine, well wrapped in her waterproof cloak, 
lingered on decl^ looking after him. 

“ After all, the sting of grief is self-reproach. I think 


276 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


i have drawn all the venom out of his wound, and by 
and by I will heal the wound,” she added, nodding 
slowly. 

Then she, too, turned and went down into the ladies’ 
cabin. 

Here she found that all her companions had turned 
into their berths and were sleeping the sleep of exhaus- 
tion, except one- unhappy lady who lay sobbing her soul 
forth in sorrow for some lost loved one, and the poor 
girl, Meta, who was stretched face downward on the 
floor, crying her eyes out for her beloved mistress. 

Geraldine, bored, fatigued and sleepy, did not con- 
descend to undertake the task of consoling either of 
these sufferers. She looked around for a place on 
which to lie down, .and seeing one unoccupied sofa, 
she threw herself upon it, wrapped in her cloak, and 
soon fell asleep. 

But her dreams were troubled with visions of the 
burning ship, the flame-lit sea, the perishing victims 
struggling with the waves, and worst of all, the form 
and face of one gentle girl rising, sinking, striving and 
then closing her sweet eyes and yielding up her life. 

Early the next morning the Mary Jane entered the 
mouth of the Thames. 

Very few of the rescued passengers appeared on 
deck. Prostrated by the terrible events of the previous 
night, all the women and children and most of the 
men kept their berths. 

But Gerald Fitzgerald — perhaps the most unhappy 
man on board the ship — could not rest. 

His bitter remorse and virulent self-reproaches were 
somewhat mitigated and softened by the communica- 
tion made to him by Geraldine concerning the manner 
of Gertrude’s death. » 

All this, I say, mitigated his bitter remorse, but it 


Gerald’s soul sickness. 


277 


could not assuage his deep sorrow for the dreadful 
death of that gentle wife whom he loved much more 
than he had known, and whom death had only made 
dearer to him. 

He was among the first to appear on deck, and there 
he found the father of the child that had been saved by 
Gertrude. 

And now he saw that the poor fellow was a plain- 
looking man, belonging to the working classes. 

The stranger was the first to speak. 

“ Good morning, sir,” he said, coming to meet Colonel 
Fitzgerald as he appeared on deck. Good morning. 
I hope you feel better this morning.” 

“Thanks — somewhat. How are you, my friend? 
And how is the little one ? I hope it received no injury 
from its terrible exposure last night ?” 

“ No, sir ; I think not. The stewardess, Mrs. Jennings, 
took such good care of it. So did the captain’s wife.” 

“ By the way, my name is Fitzgerald.” Will you tell 
me yours ?” 

“ Robins, sir. John Robins, at your service, carpenter 
by trade.” 

“ I thank you. Will you pardon me now, if, in the 
interest I feel for that child, rescued by my wife, I ask 
you a few questions ? Of course, you need not answer 
one of them if you do not feel disposed, nor, in that 
case, should I have any right to be displeased.” 

“ Why, bless you, sir, ask any question you like, and 
I shall take it kindly of you, and I ’m sure I ’m thankful 
for your interest in my poor motherless babe saved by 
your dear, sainted lady ; and how young she looked, to 
be a grown-up married lady,” said the carpenter, with 
emotion. 

“ It is for her sake, Mr. Robins, as well as for the 
child’s that I wished to speak with you.” 


m 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Ask anything you please, sir. I haven’t a secret in 
the world.” 

‘‘Have you other children besides this one, Mr. 
Robins ?” 

“ Lord bless you, no, sir. We had only been married 
— Mary and I — about two years.” 

“ Is your child a boy or a girl, and how old is it ?” 

“A boy, sir, aged three months.” 

“ So very young an infant to be motherless. Who 
will take care of him now ?” 

“ Well, my old mother will, sir. She has no young 
ones of her own.” 

“Mr. Robins, I am going to ask you a very great 
favor. Allow me, in memory of the young angel who 
saved that child’s life and lost her own — allow me to 
become responsible for his maintenance and education,” 
said Gerald Fitzgerald, with a tone and manner as 
gentle as Gertrude’s had ever been. 

“Why, Lord bless you, sir !” exclaimed the astonished 
carpenter. “ You are asking my leave to do me the very 
greatest benefit in the world, only much too great a 
benefit — that is all ! I am worlds obliged to you, sir ; 
but I don’t know as I ought to take so much at your 
hands, sir I No, nor, on the other side, I don’t know as 
I ought to refuse anything good offered to my mother- 
less babe, who can’t speak for itself. I ’m in a puzzle, 
sir ! Not but what I thank you — for I do with all my 
heart and soul, sir, and I shall thank you all the days of 
my life, whether I take it or not, sir. But let ’s see now. 
Your honor said it was to be in memory of the angel 
that saved him — didn’t you, sir ?” 

“ I did,” replied Gerald Fitzgerald, gravely. 

“ In that case, may be it might be a sort of comfort 
to yourself, sir ?” 

“ The greatest comfort, Mr. Robins.” 


Gerald’s soul sickness. 


279 


Then I agree to it, with the most grateful heart ever 
beat in a man’s breast, sir. Your sweet, sainted lady 
saved my child’s life, sir ! And because she did that, 
as if that was not enough, you will maintain and 
educate it. To think of that now ! But you would 
not wish to take it away from its grandmother, sir ? 
At least not in its infancy ?” 

“ By no means. Now, Mr. Robins, I want you to give 
me your London address, that I may know where to 
find the boy when I wish to look after him,” said Colonel 
Fitzgerald, as he took from his pocket some cards, 
envelopes and a lead pencil with which he had pro- 
vided himself from the captain’s store. 

John Robins, 27 Fish Lane, Strand, London, East.” 

Colonel Fitzgerald took down the address on a card, 
placed the card in an envelope and put it in his pocket. 
Then he drew forth another envelope, a little larger 
and better filled, and he handed it to Robins, saying : 

Here is my address ; if ever you should wish to write 
to me, I beg that you will be sure to do so, in the event 
of your changing residence, so that I may always know 
where to find the child.” 

I thank you, with all my heart and soul, sir,” said 
the man, as fervently as if he had already known that 
the envelope contained, besides Fitzgerald’s address, his 
order on his London bankers to pay the bearer fifty 
pounds — an order that he had prepared in the captain’s 
office, before coming up on deck. 

Colonel Fitzgerald then left his new prot^g^ and 
walked forward and stood leaning over the side of the 
ship, gazing abstractedly on the south bank of the 
Thames. 


280 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

LANDED, STRANDED. 

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship ! 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death ! 

O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy pallid lip? — Tennyson. 

Five minutes after this, the Mary Jane landed, and 
the usual bustle attending- the arrival of a merchant ship 
was augmented ten-fold by the news, which spread like 
wildfire, of the burning of the steamship Messenger^ in 
the Straits of Dover, the rescue of a portion of her crew 
and passengers by the Mary Jane and their actual pres- 
ence there in a half-clothed condition on board the 
vessel. 

Crowds flocked to the ship, and with that prompt be- 
nevolence which certainly inspires all civilized beings 
with sympathy for the sufferers by a great disaster, they 
hastened to offer clothes, hats, shoes and all other neces- 
saries from their own stores. 

And these offers of help came not only from the pros- 
perous, but from the poor. 

A few moments later, Gerald found himself beside 
Geraldine. She was standing in a group formed by 
Monsieur and Madame de La Vallette and their suite. 

The girl Meta stood beside her brother Jubal at a 
short distance off. 

Geraldine still wore her waterproof cloak, with its 
hood over her head. Madame was wrapped in a bor- 
rowed plaid shawl, and wore a white crochet “ nubia ” 
on her head. 

This was the first occasion in which Gerald had met 
the French party, and so Geraldine at once presented 


LANDED, STRANDED. 


281 


Colonel Fitzgerald to Monsieur and Madame de La Val- 
lette, who received him with all their national grace and 
courtesy. 

A few grave words on the late disaster were exchanged 
between them, and then Geraldine, indicating Meta by 
a turn of her head and a slight wave of her hand, said : 

“ I think, Gerald, that you had better let me take that 
girl with us. I have no maid and she has no mistress. 
It would be scarcely convenient for you to retain her.” 

“ Will the girl be of any service to you, Geraldine ?” 
inquired Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Certainly, she will. I know Meta of old, and know 
her to be a very skillful dressing-maid,” replied Ger- 
aldine. 

“Very well. If the girl has no objection, she can go 
and remain with you while we stay in London. When 
I leave for America and take Jubal with me, she will 
probably want to return with her brother, and in that 
case must do so, of course.” 

“ Very well,” replied Geraldine. 

Colonel Fitzgerald remained in desultory conversa- 
tion with the French party, keeping up a fair appearance 
of interest, but really, in his sorrowful preoccupation, 
hearing little and caring less for what was said. 

At length a messenger came up to the group, bowed 
and reported that the carriages that had been ordered 
for monsieur were waiting for his party on the dock. 

Then Colonel Fitzgerald, with a feeling of great relief, 
bowed and took his leave of the group. Leaving Meta 
in attendance upon Miss Fitzgerald, he beckoned Jubal 
to follow him and stood aside to let the French party 
pass on to the gang-pla^k before him. 

He was about to follow, when suddenly he started 
and stood still, gazing at something that a man was 
carrying in his arms. . 


282 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


It was only poor Gertrude’s little dog Nelly ; but the 
unexpected sight of her recalled the lost child too vividly 
to his mind. 

Where did you get that dog ?” he demanded. 

“ Bless you, master, I picked her up on the sea last 
night, after the wreck,” civilly answered the man. It 
is your dog, sir ?” 

“It was my wife’s,” answered Colonel Fitzgerald, 
falling back, to make way for the crowd that were 
pressing to the gang-plank. 

“ Then I ’m glad, too, master, as I saved it for the 
lady. Where shall I take the pup, sir ?” inquired the 
man. 

“ Let me see. You may hand the dog over to my 
rnan there, and you may call to-morrow at ten o’clock, 
at No. — , Regent. Street and inquire for Doctor 
Goodwin or Colonel Fitzgerald, when you will receive 
a proper acknowledgment of your services.” 

The man handed the little dog over to the care of 
Jubal. 

“ Good day to you, master ! I am sure to be on time 
at Hollis Street to-morrow,” said the man, plucking 
his forelock by way of an obeisance, as he passed on 
over the gang-plank. 

“ Come, Jubal, we must go on shore,” exclaimed Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald, as he led the way to the gang-plank, 
closely followed by his servant. 

Unexpected rencounters seemed to be the order of the 
day for Gerald. He had no sooner stepped upon the 
dock than he came face to face with the Rev. Dr. 
Goodwin. 

Both gentlemen started back in surprise. 

“ Great heaven, Fitzgerald, Vere you in this ship- 
wrecked crowd?” hastily demanded Doctor Goodwin, 
seizing Gerald’s arm, drawing it through his own and 


LANDED, STRANDED. 


283 


hurrying him to one side where they could not hinder 
the progress of the people still passing to and fro be- 
tween the ship and shore. 

‘‘ I was,” answered Fitzgerald, in a voice so broken as 
to be scarcely audible. 

‘‘What, Gerald! .Good heaven! You alarm me! 
Why do you look and speak so ? Your wife ? Gertrude ? 
Where is she ? I do not see her ! I hope — I hope — ” 
He paused in the most painful suspense and could finish 
his question only by a look. 

But it was a look that Fitzgerald understood and an- 
swered with mute eloquence by wringing the doctor’s 
hand and turning away his own face. 
my dear friend T 

That was all Doctor Goodwin could say in the first 
hours of a bereavement like that of the sufferer beside 
him. 

The two gentlemen walked on in silence for a few 
yards ; and then Doctor Goodwin, seeing an empty cab, 
hailed it, and turning, said to Colonel Fitzgerald : 

“You will come home with me at once, Gerald. A 
few days of rest in my quiet Jodgings will do you good.” 

Gerald Fitzgerald did not reply even to express the 
thanks that he felt and the doctor understood, but he 
silently suffered’ his friend to guide him for the present. 

When the cab drew up the two gentlemen entered it, 
and then Colonel Fitzgerald ordered his servant to 
mount to a seat beside the cabman, while Doctor Good- 
win directed the latter to drive to Hollis Street. 

When the friends found themselves alone in the cab 
Colonel Fitzgerald was the first to break the silence. 

“ I had made up my mind to come direct to you, my 
dear Doctor Goodwin, and indeed I was on my way to 
find a cab when I met you. I need not say how very 
much surprised I was to see you,” 


284 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ About as great to you to see me as it was to me to 
meet you,” said the doctor. 

“ The docks are not your haunts usually.” 

** No, certainly not ; but I happened to have business 
in the city connected with my search for Gabriel Had- 
don’s lost daughter — my wild-goose chase, as you call 
it, colonel — and I came down to attend to it and then 
heard of the disaster to the Messenger and the rescue of 
a portion of the crew and passengers by the Mary Jane. 
Of course I hurried to the scene of the action, to see if 
I could be of any service to the survivors, and so I came 
upon you. I thank heaven that I chanced to meet you 
there, for I felt that I need go no further to find my 
duty,” said the rector, kindly. 

“ Thanks, my friend — you are very good. I — I — -But 
pardon me, I cannot yet speak of that great disaster,” 
said Gerald Fitzgerald, striving to master his emotion. 

“ Do not attempt to speak of it, my dear Gerald. 
After a few days of rest I shall ask you to tell me of 
your misfortune ; but not now — not until you have 
recovered from the first shock, and you feel calmer and 
stronger, when it will seem a relief to you to talk of it 
to a friend,” said Doctor Go*odwin. 

Doctor Goodwin watched him with increasing anxiety, 
saw the shadow of memory darken oyer his face, the 
lines deepen on his brow, and he determined to distract 
his attention from his great affliction by introducing a 
new and interesting subject. 

“You heard me say that I went to the city on busi- 
ness connected with my search for Gabriel Haddon's 
daughter, Gerald.” 

“Yes,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, abstractedly. 

“You know I wrote to you that I had found another 
clue to this woman.” 

“ Yes,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, in the same manner. 


LANDED, STRANDED. 


285 


“ And doubtless you regarded this last clue as no bet- 
ter than its predecessors, which were false lights, like 
Jack-o’-lanterns leading their unfortunate dupes into all 
sorts of quagmires and bramble-bushes. Now did you 
not ? ’ 

“ At least I know, my dear doctor, how often you have 
been misled by false clues, and suffered loss and disap- 
pointment in your generous search.” 

“ And you think I am again on a false scent ?” 

“ Most probably.” . 

“ Then prepare yourself for a great surprise. I have 
followed up this last clue, and it has led me to the fact 
of the actual existence and present abode of Gabriel 
Haddon’s lost daughter — the heiress of half Wilde 
County, who will dispossess a dozen wealthy landed 
proprietors of their manors.” 

“ Great heaven ! She lives, then ?” exclaimed Gerald 
Fitzgerald, thoroughly aroused from his apathy. 

“ She lives, oxidi you know her !" 

‘‘Yes, Colonel Fitzgerald, you; and you will be as- 
tounded when you hear who she is. But wait until we 
get home to my quiet fireside. Then I will tell you all. 
Then you may expect an amazing revelation.” 


286 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

IN A fisherman’s COTTAGE. 

Yes, she will wake again, 

Although her glowing limbs are motionless, 

And silent those sweet lips. 

Once breathing tenderness 
That might have soothed a tiger's rage, 

Or moved the cold heart of a conqueror. 

Her gentle eyes are closed. 

And on their lids, whose texture fine 
Scarce hides the tender orbs beneath, 

A balmy sleep is laid. 

Her silken tresses vail 
Her bosom’s stainless snow. 

Curling like tendrils of a parasite 
Around a marble column, 

— Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Let us return for a moment to that awful night which 
witnessed the destruction of the steamship Messenger 
by fire, in the Straits of Dover. 

Let us recall the terrible scene in the last hour of the 
disaster: the midnight sea strewed with fragments of the 
wreck, to which miserable human beings clung for dear 
life, while the boats from the Mary Jane tossed in and 
out among them, picking up the drowning wretches 
as fast as practicable ; when Gerald Fitzgerald, in a 
paroxysm of moral insanity, abandoned his young wife 
to her fate and hastened to rescue Geraldine. 

At the same moment, however, the abandonment 
and awful peril of Gertrude were witnessed by another 
individual. 

Sallust Rowley, supporting himself on his hencoop, 
was floating slowly along, waiting his turn to be picked 
up by one of the boats from the relief ship, when he 
saw a young girl deserted and left to perish. 


IN A fisherman's COTTAGE. 287 

He did not recognize her as Gertrude. He did not 
even suspect her identity. He did not suppose that he 
had ever seen the girl in his life before. 

Remember this — that Sallust Rowley had been absent 
from his home for nearly two years, during which he 
had nearly circumnavigated the globe, and consequently 
he had heard little or nothing of what was going on in 
his native country. When he had fled the neighbor- 
hood he had left Gerald and Geraldine betrothed lovers, 
on the very eve of marriage ; and although he had 
witnessed Geraldine’s violent outburst of temper at the 
unexplained absence of Gerald, yet he did not know of 
the subsequently broken engagement ; and therefore 
when he met the two on the deck of the steamer, he 
naturally supposed them to be a married couple on their 
travels. 

He had not seen Gertrude at all, and knew nothing 
of her presence on the steamer ; indeed, whenever he 
thought of the little ferry-girl, he pictured her as still 
at the ferry, plying her trade. 

Consequently he had not the faintest idea that the 
young creature so cruelly abandoned to her fate was 
his admired Gertrude. He only saw in her some poor, 
unknown girl, whom Gerald Fitzgerald had been kindly 
trying to save ; but whom he had left to perish as soon 
as he saw his own wife in danger. 

But though he did not recognize Gertrude when he 
saw the young girl left to drown, struggle, succumb 
and sink, in an instant he dropped his hencoop, swam 
to the spot, dived for her, recovered her and brought 
her to the surface. 

He saw that she was unconscious, but he never for an 
instant imagined her to be dead. He knew that she 
could not have been drowned, dead^ in so short a time. 
Holding her by one 'hand, he swam toward the drifting 


288 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


hencoop, hoping to recover it and use it as a support 
for both until some boat should return and pick them 
up. 

But the chase after the drifting hencoop seemed a 
hopeless toil. Burdened with the weight of the uncon- 
scious girl, his progress was necessarily very slow, and 
ever as he came within reach of the hencoop and 
stretched out his arm to catch it, it drifted off farther 
from his grasp. At length his strength began to fail, 
and it became a question whether to drop his helpless 
burden or to hold her at the cost of his own life. 

“ But, no ! I won’t be such a sneak as let a woman 
drown for the sake of saving rnyself. To be sure no 
one would ever know anything about it, except that 
ridiculous fellow, Sallust Rowley ; but I ’ll be dunned if 
I wouldn’t be ashamed ever to look Jiim in the face 
again !” thought the young man to himself, as he 
struggled with all his strength to help himself and his 
helpless burden from sinking. 

“ Bosh ! This is perfectly futile ! I cannot possibly 
save her even by the sacrifice of my own life. If I 
hold on to her, we both must perish. If I drop her she 
can but perish, as she must do in any case, and then I 
might save myself. No use in throwing away my life 
for nothing ! If there was a single hope of saving her 
now ! ‘But there isn’t, not even by the sacrifice of my 
own life,” he reflected, as he felt his strength utterly 
failing him. 

But just at that moment a sudden blaze of the burn- 
ing ship lighted up the scene with a vivid brilliancy. 
Gertrude was floating on her back with her right hand 
clasped in the left hand of her preserver, and with no 
part of her form visible above the water, except her 
face. 

Sallust, thinking to drop the girl whom he could not 


IN A fisherman’s COTTAGE. 


289 


possibly save, turned his head with some difficulty to 
look at her in that sudden bright flame. 

And then, to his unbounded amazement, he recog- 
nized her to be Gertrude. 

In his consternation he forgot the situation and came 
near drowning both himself and her. He recovered his 
faculties, as he said to himself : 

“ It is Gertrude, that is certain. However she came 
to be on that unlucky steamship ? I can’t drop her. No, 
sir-r-r ! She saved my life. What a brick that girl was ! 
She saved my life, and I must save hers or drown with 
her, or never dare to look Sallust Rowley in the face 
again.” 

And he held her hand with a firmer hold, and cast 
his despairing eyes all over the surface of the flame-lit 
waters, in the hope of seeing some boat. 

He saw not one. The sea was deserted. 

Then he lifted up his voice in one long, despairing 
cry of : 

“ Help ! Help I Help /” 

His call died away in silence, and there was no re- 
sponse. He waited a minute, and then repeated the 
call : 

Help I Help I Help H 

And again his cry expired in silence, and there came 
no answer. How, indeed, could an answer come from 
the solitary sea ? Once more, however, he raised his 
hopeless voice, crying : 

“ Help I Help I Help !" 

And this time there came a reply : 

“ Aye^ aye I Hold on ! Where are you ?” 

“ Here I” shouted Sallust. 

“ Bully boy ! Keep calling till we find you !” shouted 
back the other voice. 

Sallust threw his glances as well as he could all over 


290 


THE REJECTED BRIDti. 


the sea ; but the flame of the burning ship had died 
down, leaving the scene in a murky red gloom. 

“This way!” called Sallust, at random, and at the 
same instant he faintly discerned what seemed to be a 
spark of fire on the darkening sea, and the next mo- 
ment he recognized it as a light carried at the prow of 
a small sail-boat, which was rapidly bearing down upon 
him. 

How he wished then for some means of showing a 
guiding light ! But how vain was his wish. He called 
aloud at the utmost strength of his lungs : 

“ Here^ here^ for heaven’s sake make haste ! I cannot 
keep up a minute longer !” 

“ Courage ! We see you ! We are coming !” yelled a 
voice from the sail-boat, which, as it drew nearer, Sal- 
lust recognized — by the smell — as one of those small 
fishing-smacks so common along the coast. 

With strength renewed by hope, Sallust Rowley made 
a last desperate effort and swam to meet the advancing 
boat, towing his unconscious companion after him. 

In another moment he was spent, sinking, breathless, 
but — he was alongside the fishing-smack and friendly 
hands were held out to receive him. 

“ For heaven’s sake take the girl ! I ’m gone, I 
b’lieve !” he breathlessly exclaimed. 

“ Bully boy ! Never say die ! Give us your fist ! 
Bear a hand, Ned ! Lay hold on the lass and lift her 
on board ! Give us your fist, I say, lad ! So, all right ! 
There you are !” cried the cheery voice of one who 
seemed to be the master of the little craft, as, with the 
help of his mate, he drew the two shipwrecked passen- 
gers on board the boat. 

The unconscious woman was tenderly laid down, and 
strenuous efforts were made by the few rough men to 
bring life to the numb body. 


IN A fisherman’s COTTAGE. 


291 


Rowley was treated to liberal doses of whisky to 
relieve him of cold and chills. 

In a very short time, but excessively long to freezing 
Sallust, the boat reached the shore. 

Carrying their lifeless burden, the fishermen made 
for the lighted cottage under the cliff. 

“ A good haul to-night, Jennie !” the master shouted as 
he entered the door — “ an uncommon good haul ! A 
boatload of fish and a young man and ’oman a top o’ 
them ! What do ye think o’ that, old ’oman ?” 

“ Blessed be the Lord, Dick, as you was so priv’leged 
as to save ’em both !” answered a hearty voice from an 
interior lighted by an open fire of driftwood. 

Ah ! A bad night for some, old girl. A wessel — 
dunno who she was — burnt down to the waters’ edge 
’bout three miles from shore, and many a life lost, I do 
expect.” 

“ Ah ! The poor souls ! What an awful think ! But 
there, Dick, I haven’t got time to talk now. I am seeing 
to the young lady. She is a young lady, Dick,” replied 
the fisherman’s wife, adding : “You bring the young 
man in and make him welcome. Little Mary will see 
to you both till I come.” 

And with this the good woman disappeared within an 
inner chamber, where it seemed they had taken Ger- 
trude. 

The fisherman and his guest were left alone in the 
outer room, which was but dimly lighted by the fire on 
the hearth. 

“ Drop right down anywhere, mate, while I light a 
lamp — the missus have took hers out o’ the window and 
carried it in t’ other room. So ! There you are ! All 
right !” hastily exclaimed the man as he struck a light 
and saw Sallust Rowley sink upon the settle in the 
chimney corner. 


292 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


The fisherman set his lamp upon the mantel-shelf, 
and its light distinctly revealed the interior of the fish- 
erman’s home — a medium-sized room, with walls of 
cemented stone, unplastered, and bearing on their sur- 
face a rude resemblance to dark marble, from the white 
veins of the cement running irregularly between the 
variously-shaped pieces of gray stone. There was at 
one end a broad stone fireplace, blackened with smoke 
and reddened by the glowing fire of drift-wood. At the 
other end, opposite to the fireplace, was a rude stair- 
case leading to an upper room. In front of the house 
was a broad, low window, with a wide sill, laden with 
plants and flowers in pots. Beside the window was the 
one front door. Opposite these, on the other side, was 
one door leading into an inner chamber and another 
door leading to the back premises. 

The room was roughly but comfortably furnished. 
On one side of the fireplace stood the capacious wooden 
settle, upon which Sallust Rowley’s weary frame re- 
posed. Upon the other side, against the same wall, 
stood a dresser well-laden with bright tin and pewter 
and gayly-flowered delft- and crockery-ware. In the 
corner stood an old-fashioned mahogany clock that 
reached from the floor to the ceiling. In an opposite 
corner was a cupboard with glass doors. A large, heavy 
oaken table stood between the back doors. Strong 
wooden chairs sat around the walls in every available 
place. A stack of fishing nets — hand nets — leaned 
against the partition wall of the staircase. And over 
all and through all was the strong smed of fish. 

After reviewing the room, the guest turned to look 
at the master. 

The fisherman was not at all the type of a Briton. 
He was a little, dark-skinned, sun-burned, wiry man, 
with stiff black hair and beard, and clothed in strong 


IN A fisherman’s COTTAGE. 


293 


leather boots, yellow duck trousers, pea-jacket and tar- 
paulin hat, which, from habit, he continued to wear in 
the presence of his guest. 

Sallust had scarcely made these observations before 
the inner door opened and a little, fair-skinned, blue- 
eyed, flaxen-haired girl came in. 

“ Aye, my poor little lass, here you are ! A shame to 
have you out of bed at this time of night — morning, 
I mean !” said the fisherman, smiling tenderly on the 
child. 

“ But I came to make tea for the stranger. And I 
don't mind. . Mother can’t leave the lady. She and 
Kitty be a rubbing and rolling her and a fetching of 
her too,” answered the little maid, as she pulled out the 
great oak table toward the middle of the floor, took a 
coarse, white cloth from its drawer and spread it over 
the top. 

“ Come upstairs, master, to the boy’s room. I take 
it as a good rubbing-down and a suit o’ dry clothes 
won’t do you no harm nuther,” said the fisherman 
heartily, adding : By the time we come down again, 
my little lass will have supper — breakfast ready ; for 
blest if I know which to call it ; being as it ’s too late 
for supper and too early for breakfast. ‘You pays 
your money and you takes your choice,’ or, beg pardon, 
no, you don’t pay your money — not if Dick Reynolds 
knows anything about himself. You don’t ‘ pay your 
money,’ but ‘ you takes your choice ’ all the same for all 
that — which I meant to say all the more for all 
that.” 

“ Thank you, very much ; but about the young lady ?” 
said Sallust, anxiously, as he arose to follow his host. 

“ Oh, she ’s all right with the missus ! Right as a 
trivet ! And in course she is best off with the women 
you know/’ answered the fisherman^ as he took th§ 


294 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


lamp from the mantel-shelf and went and led the way 
up the narrow stairs. 

Sallust followed him up to a rough bedroom that 
seemed little better than a loft, with a low sloping 
roof that reached from the center overhead to the 
floor, front and back. In each gable-end was a small 
square window. This loft was divided across the 
middle, from front to back, by a couple of old sail- 
cloths, with a narrow opening between them to serve 
as a door. In each division of this room stood a rude, 
hard bed on a wooden form. All the rough wardrobe 
of the men seemed to hang from pegs in the sloping 
roof. 

“ Come, master, you ’ll have to accept me as your 
wally de sham, I ’m thinking, and so the sooner you 
peel off them wet rinds o’ yours, the better,” said the 
fisherman, throwing off his own jacket, rolling up his 
shirt sleeves and arming himself with a piece of coarse 
crash. 

“ He means to skin me !” muttered Sallust Rowley 
to himself, as he eyed distrustfully these formidable 
preparations. “ Skin me ? He means to grate all the 
flesh off my bones,” groaned the victim, as he stripped 
and submitted himself to the torture. 

And the fisherman went to work vigorously, and 
rubbed the sufferer up and down for about twenty 
minutes, at the end of which he released him, observing : 

“ There you are, sir. Now you ’re all right. Never 
get cold now.” 

“ Cold ? I don’t b’lieve I shall ever feel cold again in 
the whole course of my life,” whined the red-skinned 
victim. “ I may have the St. Anthony’s Fire or the 
scarlet-fever — I feel as if I had both — but I ’ll never be 
cold again.” 

“ That ’s right. Now we ’ll go down and see what our 


IN A fisherman’s cottage. 


^95 


little maid has got ready for ns,” exclaimed the fisher- 
man, with much satisfaction, as soon as he saw his guest 
clothed in the dry, warm raiment he had provided for 
him. 

Sallust followed his host down-stairs into the lower 
room, where the smell of fried ham and eggs and hot 
tea greeted his hungry senses. 

The frugal meal was, in fact, quite ready, and only 
waiting the appearance of the fisherman and his guest 
to be put upon the table. 

“ You have done well, my little maid. But where is 
your mother ?” inquired the fisherman. 

“ With the lady. She can’t leave her yet, but the lady 
is better,” replied the little girl, as she busied herself 
with setting the edibles on the table. 

“ All right, we needn’t wait, then. Come, sir ! Draw 
up ! Have some supper — or breakfast, as you please !” 
exclaimed the fisherman, heartily, as he set a chair for 
his guest, who was glad enough to take it. 

“ I thank you, Mr. Reynolds. I think I heard you say 
your name was Reynolds ?” said Sallust, as he took his 
seat at the table. 

“ Dick Reynolds, at your service, sir, and that little 
maid is my youngest,” answered the man, heartily, as 
he dropped himself into his place. 

“ My name is Rowley — Sallust Rowley.” 

Happy to know it, Mr. Rowley. Come, my lass, 
ain’t you going to give the gentleman some tea 

The little maid shyly went up to the head of the table 
and, standing there, filled out two large cups for her 
father and his guest. 

If the truth must be told, the hearty fisherman would 
have much preferred his usual draught of strong ale ; 
but in deference to his visitor he took tea. 

There is no question about it. Notwithstanding all 


296 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


he had gone through that night, or perhaps because of 
all he had gone through that night, Sallust Rowley felt 
extremely hungry and, to his host’s great delight, he 
made a very hearty meal before he finally sat back in 
his chair quite surfeited and very sleepy. 

“ Now, sir, if you ’ll take a plain man’s advice, you ’ll 
jest go upstairs and turn in and sleep jest as long as you 
can, if it is until day after to-morrow or next week,” 
said the fisherman, cordially. 

Ah-h-h ! Oh-h-h yawned Sallust. “You’re a 
— oh-h-h ! — a brick, Mr. Reynolds ! You are, indeed. 
If it wasn’t ^o, you — I mean I — wouldn’t say it. I think 
I ’ll be guided by you. I ’ll go to bed ; but first I would 
like to know how the lady is.” 

“ Certain, sure, that ’s natural enough. Mary, lass, go 
in and ask your mother how the lady is getting on.” 

The little girl went and softly opened the door lead- 
ing into the bed-room and disappeared for a few minutes. 

When she returned, she reported that the lady was 
better, was breathing well and sleeping well. 

“ Well, then — oh-h-h yawned Sallust, at the risk of 
dislocating his jaw-bones — “I’ll go to bed, as you say. 
Which bed ?” 

“Why, bless you, either on ’em. ‘You pays your — ’ 
No you don’t, neither! But ‘you takes your choice’ 
all the more. They ’re both on ’em at your service, sir. 
The boys can coil themselves up anywhere, as I dessay 
they have done on board the boat before now. Nobody 
shall mount them stairs to trouble you, sir — no, not if 
you sleep till week after next. And so good night — 
morning to you, sir. ‘ You pays ’ — no you don’t, neither ; 
but ‘ you takes your choice ’ all the more. Good night, 
or morning, to you, sir !” said Dick Reynolds, as his 
guest arose and staggered in a somnambulistic manner 
across the room and up the stairs. 


IN A fisherman’s COTTAGE. 


297 


^‘Well! If that young chap hadn’t drank nothing 
but tea for his supper — breakfast — I should think as 
he was full. Never mind clearing the table off, my 
girl ! Go to bed, or go to your mother. I shall stretch 
myself out here before the fire to take a nap,” said the 
fisherman, suiting the action to the word and laying 
himself down along a little piece of carpet that was 
spread before the hearth. 

The little girl left the room, but only for a moment, 
when she returned with a pillow and a quilt for her 
father’s better accommodation. 

“ That ’s my little lass ! She thinks more of daddy 
than daddy does of himself, I b’lieve,” said Reynolds, as 
he allowed his little daughter to arrange him more com- 
fortably. 

“ There !” he said, when her task was done. “ Now 
you must run away and lie down again. ’Tain’t good 
for little uns to lose so much rest.” 

The child kissed the rugged man and then disap- 
peared through the door leading into the bedroom. 

The weary “ toiler of the sea ” stretched himself out 
and was soon in a dreamless sleep. 

Not so his guest. Sallust Rowley indeed had thrown 
himself down on his bed, in all his clothes, and had 
immediately dropped asleep, but his dreams were 
filled with burning ships and shrieking women and 
struggling men and all the horrors of the preceding 
night. Nevertheless, he slept long and late into the 
day. 

The fisherman’s hard-working family, however, was 
all astir by sunrise. 

The little girl Mary and her elder sister Kittie came 
out to get the breakfast ready. The mother still 
watched by the bedside of Gertrude. 

But the fisherman’s frugal meal was scarcely over 


298 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


before he was called upon by some of the men from the 
coast-guard. 

They had received news of the burning of the steam- 
ship Messenger^ off, St. Margaret’s Bay, and they had 
come down to the little fishing village to inquire 
whether any of the crew or passengers had been picked 
up by their boats. 

“ I don’t know as any other boat has picked up any- 
body. I don’t think, as any other boat from the village 
went out that far, except 'twas ours. We saw the 
burning ship, but was afeard to go too near her, for 
fear of an explosion, perhaps ; but while we was doubt- 
ing about it, we heerd a cry for help and, in course, then 
there could be ho doubt at all what we must do. We 
steered for the crying creetur’ as well as we could by 
the sound, for we couldn’t see anything ; but at last, 
after blundering -about a bit, we did — guided by the 
cries — come upon a man a-trying to save a young 
’oman and himself at the same time. So we picked 
’em up, which they are in this identical house at this 
present moment,” concluded Dick Reynolds. 

“Do you know who they are?” inquired the messen- 
ger of the coast-guard. 

“Yes, sir; the gentleman’s a Mr. Rowlins and my 
man Tom tells me this morning as the lad / is his wife, 
which to be sure she w, because the missus says she ’s 
got a wedding-ring on her finger.” 

“ Can I see the man you saved ?” inquired the mes- 
senger, drawing a note-book and pencil from his pocket. 

“Well, no, sir, not yet, I think. You see, he is pretty 
badly used up and has turned in ; and I did promise 
him that he shouldn’t be disturbed until he woke up.” 

“ It is of no consequence. His name was Rollins, I 
think you said ?” 

“ Yes, sir, Rollins, Samuel Rollins,” repeated the fish- 


IN A fisherman’s COTTAGE. 


299 


erman, while the messenger took it down in his note- 
book, and thus it happened that the names of Mr. and 
Mrs. Samuel Rollins appeared in the published list of 
the saved, at the same time that the names of Mr. Sal- 
lust Rowley and Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald appeared in the 
list of the lost. 

After asking a few more questions, the interviewer 
departed. 

The fisherman reentered his cottage, where he found 
his wife busy in preparing some food in a saucepan 
over the fire. 

“ How 's your patient, Jennie ?” he inquired. 

Jennie Reynolds, a fresh, rosy, blue- eyed woman of 
about thirty years of age, replied cheerily : 

“ Oh, she will do, now. I can’t just say as she ’s come 
to herself yet^ but she breathes easy enough, and is in a 
gentle perspiration. I can tell you better when she 
comes to herself, which she shows signs of doing this 
morning. I have got some arrowroot here, with a drop 
of spirits in it, ready for her as soon as she can take it. 
Oh, Dick Reynolds, to think of our privileges in being 
able to save these two young people ! And they, a 
young married couple, coming home from their bridle 
tower ! In course, all the gentry go abroad for their 
weddin’ towers now — and their friends expecting of ’em 
home. And they so young to be married, poor lambs ! 
Why, he is nothing but a boy and behaves like a boy, 
and, as for her, she is a child. Well, there ! I never 
was so taken aback in all my life, as when I see the 
weddin’-ring on that there baby’s finger ! And to think 
we had the privilege of saving them, Dick Reynolds ! 
We never cpi be thankful enough !” exclaimed Jennie, 
as she took the saucepan from the fire and set it on the 
hearth, where it could keep warm without ever 
cooking. 


300 th£ rejected BrIDE. 

The fisherman went out to help his boys sort the fish 
caught over night. 

Jennie returned to her patient, who was lying motion- 
less on her back, with her dark hair parted over her 
forehead and flowing down each side upon her bosom, 
and her arms lying over the outside of the white cover- 
let, on a coarse, hard, but clean bed. 

As Jennie came up to the bedside Gertrude moved 
slightly, sighed and opened her eyes. 

Jennie shrank back out of her sight, yet where she 
could watch the reviving patient, whom she did not 
wish to startle with the too sudden sight of a stranger. 

At first Gertrude looked around her in evident bewil- 
derment and pain ; then she put her hands up to her 
eyes and rubbed them gently, as if to clear their vision, 
and then reopened them and looked around again. But 
the expression of her face grew even more perplexed 
than before, as she gazed upon the rough-hewn, un- 
plastered stone walls and the rude wooden furniture of 
her new surroundings. She pressed her hands to her 
forehead and tried to reflect. Then, as she recovered 
the faculty of memory, the last terrible scene in which 
she lost consciousness arose before her mind’s eye. She 
saw again the midnight sky, the burning ship, the flame- 
lit sea, the struggling and drowning wretches, the relief 
boat passing in and out among them, picking them up 
as fast as possible. She saw herself and her husband 
together — he swimming strongly, she floating by his 
side and holding lightly on his slight clothing. She saw 
Geraldine drift along, supported by a plank, saw her 
drop the plank and shriek to Gerald for help. She felt 
the blow of the plank as it whirled around and struck 
her off from her hold upon her husband. She saw Ger- 
ald turn his back upon her^ his wife, and hasten to the 
succor of Geraldine, seize her and swim with her 


IN A fisherman's COTTAGE. 


301 


toward the relief boat. She saw all this and remem- 
bered that then and there, overwhelmed with an infinite 
anguish and despair, she lost strength and conscious- 
ness at the same moment and knew no more until she 
found herself in this strange, uncouth bed-chamber. It 
was like dying and coming back to life — to such an un- 
utterable agony of life ! Oh ! That she could close 
her eyes and die into peace ‘again, she thought. She 
felt no bitterness of anger against the beloved and hon- 
ored husband who had left her to perish beneath the 
waves while he hastened to rescue her rival. She felt 
only amazement and sorrow too deep for utterance. 

But, then, into the anguish of her heart came the 
half-reproachful wonder who had saved the life that 
must henceforth be only a living death. 

She was now in that low nervous condition in which 
the barriers between the inward and the outward are so 
loosened that thought becomes involuntary utterance 
and the sufferer babbles on in a monologue. 

So she began to murmur in her deep despair — no 
reproaches against the husband who had left her to 
death, and against whom she felt no indignation, but — 
pathetic questioning concerning the unknown hand 
who had so cruelly saved her from the death which 
was then peace. 

“ Oh, who did it ?” she moaned, in her half-delirious 
despair. “ Who did it ? Who could have had the heart 
to do it ? The pitiless heart to do it ? How can I live ? 
How can I bear life ? Oh, Lord of love, have mercy on 
me ! Take me off this rack of life ! This torture 
engine of life ! This wheel of life on which my spirit 
is broken ! Ah, who tore me from my rest ? Who 
brought me here ? Oh, Gerald, my Gerald, my Gerald, 
when you left me to die, it was cruel of any other to 
save me.” 


302 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Jennie Reynolds, hearing this low murmur, thought 
that she might venture to approach the invalid. 

“ I thank the good Lord, my dear, as you are spared 
to us and to your dear husband. You are with friends, 
my dear, and so is he,” said the good woman, kindly 
and sweetly. 

Gertrude looked up in the pleasant face of the hostess 
in much sorrowful perplexity. She did not answer for 
some moments. When she did speak she uttered but 
two words, in doubt and questioning : 

My husband 

“ Yes, dear. He is all right. He is here,” replied 
Mrs. Reynolds. 

‘‘ My husband — here ?” inquired Gertrude, with a 
dazed look. 

“ Yes, my lamb. Of course he is. . Where should he 
be ?” 

“ But— how came he here ? And — how came I here.?” 
doubtfully, breathlessly inquired Gertrude, as a strange, 
wild hope rose, trembling, in her heart. 

“To hear the child ask questions!” exclaimed the 
fisherman’s wife. “ To hear the child ask questions ! 
Why, my dear, you see my man was out with his boat 
last night, and he picked up your dear husband and 
yourself, when the dear gentleman was nigh spent with 
swimming and holding up your dead weight, for you 
were like one dead when they hauled you in the boat, 
and he wasn’t much better.” 

“Stay! You say my husband was supporting me 
when we were picked up ?” inquired Gertrude, with a 
bewildered, delighted, ecstatic look. 

“ Why, of course, I say so, my dear ? What else could 
I say ? What more natural than that he, your own dear 
husband, should save you ?” 

“ Where is he now ?” she asked, in a maze of joy. 


IN A fisherman’s COTTAGE. 


303 


Oh, he is asleep upstairs, where, my man says, he 
must not be disturbed until he wakes, because, you see, 
dear, he was as good as done for in trying to support 
you until our boat arrived and picked you up ; and 
when you got here he wouldn’t be persuaded to go to 
bed until he was sure you were out of danger. So you 
see it really was daylight before he laid down at all ; 
and he hasn’t been resting more than two hours. How- 
s’ever, I ’m most sure as the sight of your face and the 
sound of your voice would do him more good than sleep 
itself. I ’m sure of that from what I saw of his anxiety 
about you. So if you wish, I will go and call him.” 

“ Oh, no, no,” said Gertrude ; “ let him rest ! Dear 
Gerald !” she murmured tenderly to herself — “ dear, 
dear Gerald, I knew you would not abandon me to 
death ! I knew it all the time ! And noiv I understand 
your act. You heard Geraldine cry for help at the 
same moment in which I lost your support. You knew 
Geraldine could not swim at all and must drown if she 
was not helped, and you knew that I could swim and 
might support myself some time in the water. You 
forgot how weak I had become. You naturally rushed 
to Geraldine’s support. But when I saw that and mis- 
understood it, and lost strength and consciousness 
together, and )^ou saw me sink, you sped to my aid 
and dived for me and recovered me ! Oh, how could 
I have wronged you by a moment’s distrust, when I 
knew or might have known how it all was !” 

•As she murmured these words to herself, the look of 
happiness that had been gradually stealing over her 
face with every word uttered by her hostess now be- 
came a smile of perfect rapture, so that her brow grew 
radiant. 

“ My dear young lady, you look so much better. 
Can’t you now take a little light nourishment like 


304 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


arrowroot with a dash of spirits, or something ?” 
inquired the kind hostess. 

“ No ; I thank you very much. I wish to be alone 
for a little while, to collect my thoughts. And please 
do not on any account disturb my husband ; but when 
he awakens of himself, then please let me know at once.” 

“Yes, my dear young lady, certainly ; but I really 
wish you would take some light nourishment — tea and 
toast, or — ” 

“ Nothing, thank you, my kind hostess ; nothing just 
as present. After a while, perhaps ; but I will let you 
know.” 

“ Do so, my dear,” said the good woman, as she 
stooped and pressed a kiss upon the radiant brow of 
the young wife, before leaving the room. 

As soon as she found herself alone, Gertrude folded 
her hands over her bosom, closed her eyes and yielded 
her spirit up to a blissful reverie. 

“ This is waking to new life indeed,” she murmured, 
with an ecstatic smile, “ this is the waking to new life.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

IN THE rector’s APARTMENTS.- 

Her name has been a music in my life 
So sweet, it may not die in silence now. 

Oh, more to me, than sister, or than wife 

Once — and now — nothing! It is hard to know 
That such things have been, and are not, and yet 
Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure. 

And goes upon its business or its pleasure 
And knows not all the depth of its regret. 

— Owen Meredith. 

The cab containing Doctor Goodwin and Colonel 
Fitzgerald, after bowling along Oxford Street for a few 


IN THE rector’s APARTMENTS. 


305 


moments, turned into Harley Street and drew up be- 
fore a plain, three-storied brick house with a gray 
front, green window-shutters and a green door, to 
which a short flight of stone steps led. 

“ Here we are. Come, colonel !” said the good doctor, 
as, without waiting for the help of the servant, he 
opened the door of the cab and stepped out, followed 
by Gerald Fitzgerald. 

Jubal came down from the box-seat with the little 
Skye-terrier in his arms. 

Doctor Goodwin paused only to pay and discharge 
the cab, and then he led his guest up the steps to the 
door, which he opened with a pass-key. 

“My apartments comprise nearly the whole of the 
first floor and are really very clean and comfortable. 
Walk up, if you please, ccflonel,” he said, leading the 
way along a wide passage and up a broad staircase to 
another passage and thence to a large parlor plainly 
upholstered in mahogany and green moreen, with 
carpet and wall-paper to match. 

“ Now, take that rocking-chair, Fitzgerald, and sit 
down and ‘ serene yourself,’ as the Spaniards say. Let 
me be your physician, host and servant — your guide, 
philosopher and friend. Let me tell you what to do 
and help you to do it. In the first place you must take 
a warm bath, then a bowl of hot broth and then you 
must take — to your bed until it is time to dress for din- 
ner. What do you say ? Will you follow my advice ?” 

“ Willingly and gratefully, niy dear doctor,” answered 
Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Sit you there, then, for the present, and I will show 
your man where the bath-room is, so that he can pre- 
pare your bath. I have no servant of my own. A 
single man, in lodgings, doesn’t really need one, you 
know. He can always find a plenty of honest people 


306 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


ready to wait on him for a fair compensation. Come, 
Jubal ! Put down that four-footed friend of yours and 
follow me !” he added, as he led the way from the parlor 
to a spare bed-chamber and bath-room in the rear of 
the house. 

Fifteen minutes later Jubal came back for his master 
and carried him off to the rooms appointed for his use, 
where a warm bath, a change of underclothing and a 
comfortable bed had been prepared for him. 

There is no better sedative than a hot bath, and after 
having taken his in full measure, Gerald Fitzgerald lay 
down and fell into the first sleep he had known since 
the awful night of the fire at sea. 

Jubal returned to the rector to report for farther 
orders, when Doctor Goodwin directed him to take his 
master’s spoiled clothing to* a fashionable tailor, whose 
establishment on Oxford Street was but a few blocks 
off, and to get that measured for a new ready-made 
suit, which he was to order to be brought home the 
same afternoon. 

Jubal went on his errand, and the prompt outfitters 
in Oxford Street used such dispatch that all the articles 
ordered were sent within two hours ; so that when 
Colonel Fitzgerald awoke, he found every requisite for 
a gentleman’s full dress laid out for his use. 

He rang for his valet and made his toilet, and then 
went down to join his old friend in the parlor ; but that 
keen, new sense of sorrow which always attends the 
first awakening from the first sleep after a great 
calamity now overshadowed and oppressed him. Grief 
and remorse returned together with augmented force 
and poignancy. 

He remembered that Geraldine had told him how 
Gertrude had received a fatal blow from the whirling 
plank and that her life could not possibly have been 


IN THE RECTOR^S APARTMENTS. 


307 


saved ; but ah, he remembered, too, that he had not 
heard this at the time of Gertrude’s death ; he knew 
that for one awful moment he had been free to choose 
which of the two drowning women to save, and that in 
some swift delirium he had left his true and loving wife 
to perish and had rushed to the rescue ©f her selfish and 
exacting rival ! 

And whether he could have saved her or not, he now 
felt nothing but disgust and abhorrence of himself for 
having failed to make the attempt. 

In this dark and heavy mood of mind he entered 
Doctor Goodwin’s green parlor, where he found the 
rector, seated at a table, busily engaged in looking over 
a pile of old letters and documents. 

On seeing his visitor enter, the doctor arose and 
greeted him and pushed an easy-chair to the fire, saying : 

“ I hope you feel refreshed by your sleep, colonel. 
Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Dinner will 
be served in half an hour.” 

“ I have much to thank your thoughtful kindness for, 
my dear doctor,” answered Gerald Fitzgerald, as he sank 
wearily into the arm-chair. 

“ Nothing at all, my dear colonel. It comforts me 
to serve you by any means in my power,” replied the 
rector. ^ 

“ I found you busy over your papers. Pray do not 
let me interrupt you. Doctor Goodwin.” 

“ You do not, I assure you, colonel. These are letters 
relating to the identity of Gabriel H addon’s heiress. I 
was merely arranging and numbering them according 
to their dates. I have got through with my task and 
am quite at your orders, colonel.” 

So saying, the rector gathered up his parcels of letters, 
drew out the table drawer, put them in it, and closed 
and locked it. 


308 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Then he drew his chair to the fire, near that of his 
guest, at whose pale and suffering face he looked 
sorrowfully and attentively. 

He expected Fitzgerald to make some remark con- 
cerning the letters to which he had purposely alluded ; 
but Gerald seemed to have forgotten all about the sub- 
ject and to be completely absorbed in the most painful 
thoughts. 

The doctor watched him furtively, but made no com- 
ment, offered no condolence. He had had too much 
experience among the bereaved not to know when to 
speak and when to be silent. 

Though he felt very anxious to hear the particulars 
of the burning of the Messenger from the lips of an 
eye-witness as reliable as Colonel Fitzgerald, yet he 
forbore to allude to the disaster by which his guest had 
been so awfully stricken. 

The ringing of the dinner-bell was a positive relief 
to the oppressive silence that had fallen between the 
friends. 

“Come, colonel,” exclaimed Doctor Goodwin, rising 
with grave cordiality, “ come and try once more an old 
widower’s frugal bill of fare. You have not dined with 
me once since — when ? I fail to recollect. Come !” 

Gerald Fitzgerald aroused himself by an effort, arose 
and prepared to follow his host. 

Doctor Goodwin opened a door leading into the back- 
room on the same floor, where the dinner-table was set. 

The doctor signed for his guest to be seated, then 
asked a blessing on the meal, and took his own place at 
the head of the little table. 

“ I have no waiter, you perceive, Gerald,” he said, as 
he helped his guest to a plate of soup. “ My landlady’s 
daughter answers the bell and changes the plates.” 

Fitzgerald did not reply, but received his soup with a 


IN THE rector’s APARTMENTS. 


309 


silent nod of thanks. On his part, the dinner was a 
mere pretense ; and, though the doctor ate heartily, 
even he was glad when the meal was over. 

After dinner, the two gentlemen returned to the front 
parlor, where the gas was lighted and the fire replen- 
ished, and the whole room made comfortable and at- 
tractive. 

The rector drew two chairs to the hearth and signed 
to his listless guest to take one, while he himself dropped 
into the other. 

To prevent Fitzgerald from falling deeper into his sad 
reverie. Doctor Goodwin determined to draw off his 
thoughts from the disastrous shipwreck to another and 
less painful channel. He resolved to engage him on the 
subject of Gabriel Haddon’s missing daughter. 

“You heard me say that those papers you saw me 
arranging referred to the woman for whom I have been 
searching for the last eighteen months, and vainly, until 
this week.” 

“Yes,” absently responded Gerald. 

“ You heard me say that this woman, in whom I have 
discovered the daughter of Gabriel H addon, is not un- 
known to you.” 

“Yes,” answered Gerald, indifferently. He scarcely 
heard the question, for with the most painful concentra- 
tion, his mind was absorbed in the agonizing wonder as 
to whether his young wife had really perished by an un- 
avoidable and fatal accident, as Geraldine had repre- 
sented, or by his own base desertion ; whether she had 
really been struck and killed by the plank, and so placed 
beyond his aid, or whether she had* drowned only for 
the want of his help. 

“ Now, pray^ give me your attention. Colonel Fitz- 
gerald. What I am about to tell you I consider really 
very important. I warned you that you would be greatly 


310 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


surprised — indeed, I might have said shocked— at hear- 
ing the name of Gabriel Haddon’s daughter.” 

“ Yes,” murmured Gerald Fitzgerald, still sadly ab- 
stracted, for he was trying to remember how Gertrude 
looked in the last glimpse he got of her face. 

Now, whom do you suppose to be the long-missing 
daughter of Gabriel and Lily H addon,” inquired the 
rector, trying to arouse his moody guest. “ Whom do you 
suppose her to be ? Some one you know, I assure you, 
but whom ?” 

“ Gertrude,” murmured Fitzgerald, scarcely knowing 
what he said. 

“ ‘ Gertrude ?’ Nonsense ! What are you thinking 
of, my dear colonel ? Gertrude is a child in years — not 
seventeen yet. This woman must be middle-aged. Of 
course, not Gertrude !” 

“Then I don’t know.” 

“ Then listen : The lost daughter of Gabriel Haddon 
is discovered and identified in — ” 

“ Whom ?” 

^^Magdalar 

^ Magdala echoed Gerald Fitzgerald, now thor- 

oughly aroused. 

“ Yes, that poor, mad wanderer, whom we have known 
for nearly seventeen years as Magdala, is the daughter 
of the late Gabriel Haddon and Lillian, his wife, and 
the undoubted heiress of some half a dozen of the 
wealthiest manors in Wilde County !” 

“ Heaven of heavens ?” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, 
aghast. 

‘ I thought I should wake you up at last,” quietly 
remarked Doctor Goodwin. 

“But are you sure of your astounding statement?” 
inquired Fitzgerald. 

“ Perfectly. I have all the documents. There is not 


IN THE rector’s APARTMENTS. 


311 


a single break in the chain of evidence,” calmly replied 
the rector. 

“ This is the most stupefying piece of news I ever 
heard in my life ?” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, in 
unabated amazement. 

“ I thought you would regard it so,” quietly remarked 
the rector. 

“ I am indeed confounded by this announcement,” 
murmured Gerald to himself. 

“ Perhaps I had better tell you the whole story, 
colonel.” 

Pray do so. Doctor Goodwin.” 

“ I need not, however, weary you with all the docu- 
mentary evidence of the statement, or even with details 
of the toil and trouble by which I obtained such evi- 
dence. It is all safely locked up in yonder table drawer, 
where you can find and examine at your leisure.” 

“ Thank you, doctor ; I will look at it in due time.” 

“ Then I will just simply tell you the story and keep 
the proofs to be produced when they shall be called 
for.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You have doubtless heard. Colonel Fitzgerald, how 
Gabriel Haddon married Lillian Vale in opposition to 
her grandfather’s wishes.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And her grandfather, Hiram Slaughter, contrived 
to separate Lillian from her husband by a perjury — 
making oath before a magistrate that she was a minor 
and his ward, and that, therefore, her marriage without 
his consent was illegal, when in fact she was of age 
and was the lawful wife of Gabriel Haddon.” 

“ Yes, I know that.” 

“You know also that Haddon was prosecuted and 
imprisoned on the false charge of abducting a minor.” 


312 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Certainly.” 

“ But, perhaps, you do not know that during the 
imprisonment of Haddon, General Slaughter took his 
unhappy granddaughter to England, where he sub- 
jected her to the influence of poisonous sedatives, whose 
deadly action on her brain and nervous system reduced 
her almost to a state of idiocy.” 

“ I have heard even that.” 

“ And while she was in this irresponsible state, he 
placed her in a private hospital, where she became the 
unconscious mother of a female child, whom she never 
beheld, whose birth she never even suspected.” 

“ Certainly, that also I have heard.” 

“ Can you wonder, then, that this hapless offspring of 
a poisoned, crazed, unconscious mother should have 
been born with the seeds of insanity in her organiza- 
tion and should at last have developed into that moon- 
struck maniac, Magdala !” 

“ No ! No ! But it is a sorrowful, terrible story !” 

“ It is ; but now to my statement.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE rector’s discovery. 

Now let me speak to the yet unknowing world 
How these things came about. All this can I 
Truly deliver. — Shakespeare. 

“ I .succeeded about ten weeks since in tracing the 
physician who kept the private hospital where this un- 
fortunate child was born. He had retired on a fortune 
and was living at Brighton. I went down there and 
interviewed him. He was quite an aged man, seventy- 
five or eighty years old, I should judge ; but his facul- 


THE rector’s discovery. 


313 


ties were good and his memory clear. He perfectly 
recollected Lillian H addon, had once been deeply 
interested in her history, from one strange circum- 
stance. She had not been introduced to him and en- 
tered on his books as Lillian Haddon, but as Annie 
Fendal ; while all her underclothing and linen were 
marked with the name of Lillian Haddon.” 

“ That was a strange oversight in General Slaughter, 
if he intended to deceive the hospital doctor,” observed 
Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Yes ; but a perfectly natural one, in a replied 

the doctor ; “ for, of course, he never chanced to see 
these marked garments and never thought of their 
being marked with her right name. Hiram Slaughter 
was an unscrupulous man, but he was also a dull one 
in many respects.” 

“ Probably ; but never mind. Proceed !” 

“ The nurse it was who first noticed the lady’s real 
name on her linen, and she spoke of it to the doctor, 
who counseled her to take no notice and to hold her 
tongue. But there was still other evidence of the lady’s 
identity as Lillian Haddon. In her bosom was found a 
worn letter enveloped and directed to Gabriel Haddon, 
Haddon’s Ferry, Wildeville, Wilde County, Va., U. S. 
This letter the nurse took charge of. It seemed that 
the poor, guarded girl had got a chance to write it and 
that then she carefully concealed it about her person, 
waiting for an opportunity to post it. That letter is 
still in existence, tied up with some others in that table • 
drawer.” 

Colonel Fitzgerald glanced toward the place of de- 
posit, but said nothing. Doctor Goodwin continued : 

“ The physician told me that the young patient con- 
tinued to be known in the hospital as Annie Fendal, 
though he and her nurse felt sure that her true name 


B14 


THE rejected bride. 


was Lillian H addon. She remained with them for 
several months, during- which she continued in a very 
infirm condition of mind and body, so that when she 
became a mother she knew nothing of what had hap- 
pened. Her babe was placed out at nurse, and at the 
end of a month the young mother was removed by her 
guardian ; and the doctor never afterward heard of her. 
He gave me, however, the address of the nurse who had 
attended Lillian Haddon during her illness in the hos- 
pital and also of the woman who had taken the babe to 
bring up. I found both these women living in London 
— the sick-nurse still plying her useful trade, though 
now a woman past sixty and the child’s nurse now the 
wife of a thriving market-gardener, near Norwood. The 
hospital nurse confirmed all Doctor Selby had told me, 
and, in addition, produced the old yellow linen, still 
marked with the name of Lillian Haddon, and the old, 
crumpled letter, directed to Gabriel Haddon, which she 
said she had kept, thinking something might come of it 
some day. I gave the woman twenty pounds for all 
these precious relics and brought them away with me. 
You can see them in due time.” 

“ Thanks !” muttered Fitzgerald. 

The next day I made a visit to the market-gardener’s 
wife who, having lost her own first child, had taken 
Lillian Haddon’s to nurse. I found the woman to be a 
buxom dame of about fifty- five, living at Norwood. 
She gave me an unbroken history of the child, from the 
day when she answered the doctor’s advertisement and 
presented herself at the hospital as a wet-nurse and 
took away the new-born infant with her to Norwood 
down to the day the same child, grown to be a woman, 
a wife and a mother, took leave of her and sailed for 
Virginia, to look after the relatives and the estates to 
which she had discovered herself to be the heiress.” 


THE rector’s discovery. 


315 


“ And this was the woman we have known as Mag- 
dala ?” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ The very same.” 

“ And Magdala — mad Magdala — a wife and mother, 
and cognizant of her rights as an heiress ?” 

“ Yes.” 

How, in the name of heaven, did she make the dis- 
covery ?” 

She did not make it ; another did. You shall hear. 
But you must let me tell my story in my own way. You 
must know that the young nurse became very much at- 
tached to her nurseling, so that even after all the remit- 
tances from her mysterious guardian ceased, the woman 
and her husband still loved and cherished the forsaken 
child. They had her christened in Norwood Church, 
and gave her the name of Magdala Haddon, and the hos- 
pital nurse who had attended her mother stood as one 
of her sponsors in baptism. They tried to find out the 
guardian who had so faithlessly abandoned her, but 
they failed utterly in their attempt to trace him. At last 
they gave up the pursuit, and reconciled themselves to 
bear all the trouble and expense of rearing the child. 
In due time they sent her to the parish school, where 
she learned the rudiments of education. She grew up 
to be a very beautiful girl and, at the early age of fif- 
teen, she won the affections of the man who afterward 
married her, and who was the first to discover her 
identity as the heiress of certain manors in Wilde 
County.” 

“ How was that ?” inquired Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Let me tell you,” said Doctor Goodwin. “ It seems 
that the worthy market-gardener and his good wife had 
prospered greatly during the years that little Magdala 
had been growing up — as if their protection of the de- 
serted child had brought a blessing to them. They had 


316 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


three other children of their own, however, a girl some 
two years younger than Magdala, and a pair of twin 
boys born several years later. They made money, 
bought a larger place near their own, moved into it and, 
while the husband carried on the market-gardening 
business, the wife took lodgers, assisted by Magdala and 
her own younger girl. Well, one summer when Mag- 
dala was about fifteen years of age, there came a gen- 
tleman to lodge with them, whose name was Adam 
Lackland.” 

“ Who f” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, bending his 
dusk brows wistfully upon the speaker. 

“Adam Lackland.” 

Adam Lackland 

“Aye ! You may well stare. I thought I should give 
you several shocks before I could get through with my 
narrative,” said the rector, quietly. 

“ Adam Lackland ; why, that was the name of the 
man who was tried in Washington two years ago for the 
murder of Buckhurst !” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Yes, that was the man or, at all events, the name of 
the man.” 

“ The name is very peculiar, but not more so than the 
man who bore it ; it must have been the same. Pray, 
go on.” 

“ Well, this young Lackland came to lodge with Rob- 
ins, the market-gardener, in the summer when Magdala 
Haddon was about fifteen years of age. It seems that 
he was a very handsome young fellow of pleasing man- 
ners, and what was better than all, steady habits. He 
niade a very good impression on the honest people, who 
declared that they had never had a lodger whom they 
liked better ; for, though he was engaged upon a Lon- 
don newspaper, he neither smoked nor swore nor broke 
the Sabbath ; besides, he kept regular hourg/' 


THE rector's discovery. 


317 


“ What a young hypocrite he must have been ! That 
could never have been my swash-buckler ! What could 
have been his motive ?" inquired Fitzgerald, with solemn 
irony. 

“ Fie, Gerald !” exclaimed Doctor Goodwin, pleased, 
nevertheless, to perceive that his guest was roused a 
little from his profound gloom. 

“ Go on. He was a very exemplary young man, 
though a professional Bohemian. That being under- 
stood, proceed. What did he do ?” 

“ He fell in love with the splendid beauty of young 
Magdala." 

“ Sequence ! What next ?” 

“ He won her love in return.” 

“ 6't»/2-sequence ! Next ?” 

“ Mrs. Robins saw the growing attachment with 
surprise and fear, and would have put a stop to their 
intimacy, had not the young man proposed to marry 
the girl.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, the foster-mother consulted the father and 
then the curate and then the god-mother, and between 
them all it was agreed that though the girl was very 
young, yet the man was so steady, respectable and 
well able to support her, it was better that so good an 
opportunity of settling her satisfactorily in the world 
should not be lost ; but that, before the marriage, the 
young man must, in fairness, be informed of the doubt- 
ful origin of this child whom he sought as his wife.” 

“Yes; that was right. They seem to have had a 
true sense of honor, these humble people,” said Gerald 
Fitzgerald. 

“As true a sense of honor as the bluest-blooded 
nobility in the land ! They sent for the young man 
and told him all about it. He heard them with the 


318 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


greatest amazement, but made no comment until they 
had got through. Then he asked to be permitted to 
see the relics that had been preserved by the humble 
friends of the deserted child. After he had seen and 
examined them all, he, in his turn, astonished his new 
friends by announcing to them that he was himself a 
native of Wilde County, that he knew the Gen. Hiram 
Slaughter and the Gabriel H addon mentioned in the 
long-preserved letter ; that he had heard of the Lily 
Vale who had run off with and married Gabriel Haddon : 
that in Wilde County there was a difference of opinion 
about that marriage, some holding it to be perfectly 
legal, others .believing it to be otherwise ; but' if that 
marriage could be proved to have been legal and the 
girl Magdala identified as the child of that union, then 
was she the heiress of extensive manors in Wilde 
County, Virginia.” 

“ Well ?” 

“Well, you may judge the amazement of the little 
circle to whom this astounding announcement was 
made. To be sure, Mrs. Robins declared that she had 
always known her adopted daughter to be a lady born, 
for she showed herself to be so, in every look and tone 
and gesture, and therefore she was not much surprised 
to hear that .she was also an heiress. Robins, the hus- 
band, never said a word, but went out in the garden to 
meditate. And Magdala, for her part, burst into tears 
of joy, and said that she was so glad, for the sake of 
her dear foster-parents, because now, at last, she would 
have some means of proving her affection and grati- 
tude to them ; and also for the sake of her lover, who 
loved her even when he thought she was only a poor 
girl, and before he had had any reason to suspect her 
of being an heiress.” 

“Wait a moment,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, reflectively. 


THE rector’s DiSCOVEkV. 


319 


‘‘ All you say of this girl makes her seem so different 
to the moon-struck maniac whom we knew as Magdala. 
Pray tell me if you heard whether any signs of mental 
derangement ever showed themselves in her at the 
age or up to the time of which you are now speaking.” 

“ No, none that I ever heard of ; but mind, I did not 
inquire ; nor did I mention to any one the fact that I 
had ever heard of Adam Lackland or his wife Magdala. 
There are some things best left unsaid. It would have 
been no pleasure to these poor people to learn that the 
child whom they had loved and cherished had become 
a wandering maniac on the mountain- wilds of Virginia, 
or that her husband had been tried for the murder of 
his rival in the affections of another woman whom he 
was trying to marry in the lifetime of his own wife ! 
No ! I could not wound their good hearts with any 
such intelligence. I only told them of General 
Slaughter’s death-bed confessions as the motive for 
my search for Gabriel Haddon’s child.” 

“Well, they married — this young Adam Lackland 
and Magdala Haddon ?” 

“ Yes, they married ; but from stress of circumstances 
they lodged with the old couple for several months, 
during which young Lackland collected all the proofs, 
relics, copies of letters, abstracts from parish registers, 
affidavits of witnesses and everything else that he could 
lay his hands on as evidence of the identity of Magdala 
Haddon with the daughter of Gabriel and Lillian Had- 
don, and the heiress of sundry manors in Wilde County. 
Fortunately, he was wise enough to take attested copies 
only^ leaving the original documents in the hands of 
those who had so carefully preserved them for so many 
years. Armed with these, he made preparations for 
taking his young wife with him to Virginia, to seek out 
her father, Gabriel Haddon, and her grandfather, Hiram 


320 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Slaughter. But, in the meantime, the winter had drawn 
on, and he was unwilling to expose Magdala to the dis- 
comforts of a sea voyage in cold weather. He was 
easily persuaded to defer the trip until spring should 
come. But when that time arrived, another delay be- 
came necessary. The period was approaching when the 
young wife would become a mother, and it was advis- 
able to put off their voyage until after the birth of her 
child. In short, they waited. Their child, a lovely 
little girl, by Mrs. Robins’s account, was born on the 
first day of June. Mother and babe being in perfect 
health, they completed their arrangements, and sailed 
for New York on the 28th of the same month. And the 
kind friends they had left behind never saw them 
again.” 

“ I wonder how that could have been, since both Lack- 
land and Magdala are still living, and it seems that they 
had both been very much attached to the old market- 
gardener’s family.” 

“ Heaven knows ! As for me, I have been wondering 
at everything relating to the case ever since I discov- 
ered the hospital doctor and followed up the clue.” 

“ Did they never hear from the young couple again ?” 

“Yes, once, and only once. They received a letter 
from Adam Lackland, dated New York, July the loth, 
saying that they had arrived safe and in good health, 
and that they should start for Virginia on the following 
morning. Since that they have never received one item 
of intelligence concerning them. The market-gardener, 
through the friendly curate, made all manner of in- 
quiries, by letter and otherwise, for years, but without 
the least satisfactory result. The market-gardener, who 
believes our native country to be a lawless and perilous 
place — and is about half right — feels sure that the miss- 
ing party were waylaid, robbed and murdered, and that 


THE rector’s discovery. 


321 


they will never be heard from again. I did not set them 
right, for reasons already explained.” 

“ Well, Goodwin, I have heard your astounding story, 
yet this remains : That the Adam Lackland and Mag- 
dala H addon of your narrative, the steady. God-fearing 
young man and the gentle, affectionate maiden are so 
entirely different, so exactly opposite to the Lackland 
and Magdala of our acquaintance, to the rough back- 
woodsman and the fierce mad woman, that I cannot 
make them the same,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Time, change and circumstances have made them 
the same. The Lackland and Magdala who, with their 
infant child, left England on the 28th of June, 18 — , and 
arrived at New York on the loth of July, are fhe same 
Lackland and Magdala of your knowledge. I can trace 
every step of the girl’s history, from her birth to her 
arrival in New York on the loth of July, 18 — . Then and 
there she is lost sight of, by direct testimony ; but her 
steps may still be followed by circumstantial evidence.” 

“ What evidence, in the name of heaven ?” 

“ Listen ! Her letter to her foster-parents, dated New 
York, July loth, 18 — , announcing their safe arrival in 
port, also stated that they should leave for Virginia on 
the next day, the nth. That would give them four 
days, easy travelling, to reach Wildeville, where they 
would probably arrive on the 15th. Do you follow me?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Now, do you remember the notable flood of the 15th 
of July, 18— ?” 

“ Perfectly. I have reason to remember it. In the 
great thunder-storm that preceded that inundation, my 
uncle and aunt, the parents of my cousin Geraldine 
were drowned by the capsizing of their pleasure-boat. 
The storm overtook them very suddenly when they 
were midway between the two banks of the Wilde, and 


322 THE REJECTED BRIDE. 

their little boat foundered before they could reach the 
shore. I have good reason to remember that day. I 
was about fifteen years of age. My cousin Geraldine 
was about five, poor child ?’' 

“Yes, well,” continued Doctor Goodwin, with a sigh, 
“ you remember the day of the great inundation, when 
so much life and property were destroyed. It was on 
the 15th of July — ^just four days after Adam Lackland, 
his wife Magdala and their infant daughter were to 
have left New York for western Virginia and the very 
day upon which they would probably have arrived.” 

“ Yes ; but good heaven, to what does all this lead?” 
exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, much disturbed. 

“ I almost fear to follow the clue ; but I must do so, 
nevertheless ! Listen ! Lackland and his wife and 
child left New York on the iith of July and were to 
have arrived at Wildeville on the 15 th, the day of 
the great flood. But he was never heard of at Wilde- 
ville. Adam Lackland was never heard of in Wilde 
County ! Now listen : On the night of the great storm 
that preceded the flood, strangers arrived at the landing 
opposite H addon’s Ferry. They shouted and called for 
the boat. But no boat could have lived on the Wilde 
that night. They were safer where they were, under 
the shelter of the little ferry-hut on that side, or at 
least it was supposed so ; for that they were not safe 
even there was proved by the sequel. The next morn- 
ing no trace of the strangers or even of the ferry-hut 
could be found. All had been carried away by the ter- 
rible flood of the night. But mark you ! Below Wilde- 
ville, the insensible form of an unknown woman was 
recovered before life was quite extinct. She was resus- 
citated but immediately fell into a violent fever, from 
which she arose with a shattered intellect. She could 
give no account of herself, and the only article found 


THE rector’s discovery. 


323 


upon her person bore the name of Magdala. She was 
called Magdala and always answered to that name.” 

“Yes, she did! She did! The circumstantial evi- 
dence is very strong, very strong, indeed !” 

“ Listen further. Colonel Fitzgerald. On the morning 
of that disastrous flood, a young female infant, a few 
weeks old, was found in its little cradle, safely stranded 
among the water-lilies at Haddon’s Ferry.” 

Heaven of heavens, Goodwin ! To what does all this 
tend ?” exclaimed Colonel Fitzgerald, scarcely able to 
master his emotion. 

“ Be calm, Gerald, and brace yourself ! This child 
was found by Gabriel Haddon, who took her in, adopted 
her and brought her up as his own.” 

“ Gertrude !'" 

“Yes, he called her Gertrude. Now do you know 
how he happened to call her Gertrude ? I ask for infor- 
mation.” 

“Great heaven, Goodwin, you have shaken me so 
that I can scarcely collect my thoughts ! Do I know 
why Gabriel Haddon called his little waif Gertrude ? 
Let me see — yes ! Poor girl, she herself told me how it 
was. It seems one of the women who attended to her 
on the morning when she was rescued found a faintly- 
traced name on her little linen garment. The name 
was ‘ Gertie.’ They took that to be a contraction of 
Gertrude, and so she was named Gertrude, so that some 
faint clue might remain to her identity, and the little 
garment that bore the name has been carefully pre- 
served,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, striving to control his 
great agitation. 

“ That also is an important link in the chain of evi- 
dence. For, mark you, Fitzgerald, the child of Adam 
Lackland and Magdala was baptized in Norwood 
Church by the name of Gertrude, I have the certifi- 


324 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


cate of baptism and an attested abstract from the 
parish register among the documents. So it appears 
that your young wife Gertrude was really in fact, as 
well as by adoption, the granddaughter of Gabriel 
Haddon and — failing her unhappy mother — the richest 
heiress in Wilde County.” 

Gerald Fitzgerald started up and began to walk the 
floor with rapid strides. 

“ But what a parentage !” he exclaimed, in a tone of - 
profound mortification and despair. “ What a parent- 
age ! A murderer and a mad woman ! The father a 
once convicted felon ! The mother a homeless wanderer 
for many years ! Oh, Hiram Slaughter, your sins are 
heavy ! Oh, my poor child- wife, it is well that you 
have found rest ! Would all the wealth of Wilde 
County compensate you for such shame as that ? It 
is well your sweet, pure spirit is at rest, my love !” 

“ Come, come, Gerald ; all that is very morbid ! The 
man Lackland received a second trial, and he has 
been honorably acquitted. No shame can fall from 
him upon his daughter. As for Magdala, her insanity 
is not hereditary or constitutional, but the effect of 
terror, exposure and fever. The worst feature in it 
was her capricious denial of her own child ; for I think 
she must have known that Gertrude was her own, after 
all.” 

“Possibly. Indeed, most probably, for the relation 
between them throws light upon some dark sayings 
and doings of the poor woman,” murmured Colonel 
Fitzgerald, as his thoughts reverted to the night when 
the poor mad woman spirited Gertrude away from his 
protection. 

“There, Fitzgerald! You have my statement in 
full 1” said Doctor Goodwin. 

“ And you have the proofs of its correctness ?” 


THE rector’s discovery. 


325 


Yes, in abundance. You are at liberty to examine 
them. Moreover, I have no doubt that the most im- 
portant witnesses in this case could be induced, if it 
should be necessary, to go over to America and give 
their testimony in the Wilde County Court.” 

“ And yet,” said Gerald Fitzgerald, sorrowfully, 
“ though, for the ends of justice, these facts must be 
revealed, I cannot see any good that can come out of 
the revelation. Magdala is a wandering maniac, who 
can never enjoy the property ; Lackland is a border 
rover, who will never stay at home. Gertrude has 
gone where she no longer needs this world’s poor 
wealth. But as for Geraldine — poor, proud Geraldine 
— she will be reduced to destitution. Well, Doctor 
Goodwin, your long quest has been a labor of love, 
without money and without price, and at length it has 
been successful so far. What do you propose to do 
next ?” 

‘‘To return to the United States, seek out Lackland 
first and ascertain what corroborative testimony he may 
possess ; then find Magdala ; then put the whole case 
in court.” 

“ One of the strangest things in this strange drama 
is the unexplained estrangement between that husband 
and wife, who seem to have married for love in the 
first instance. It would almost appear that Lackland 
did not even know of Magdala’s existence when he 
proposed marriage with another woman.” 

“ My dear colonel, there are some mysteries connected 
with this story which I cannot even pretend or hope to 
solve until I see the parties to them. This sudden, 
violent and complete severance of husband, wife and 
child is one of them.” 

“ When do you propose to sail for America ?” 

“On the ist of March. I told you when I met you 


326 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


this morning that my business in the city was connected 
with the discovery I had made. In point of fact, it was 
with the agent of the Cunard line, to whose office I had 
that morning gone to secure a passage to New York on 
the first steamer on which I could get a berth. I found 
that every berth had been taken on the three ships that 
were to sail in February ; but that there were yet some 
vacancies in the steamer appointed to sail on Saturday, 
the ist of March. So I forthwith secured a fine state- 
room amidships on the Europa'' 

“ And you certainly sail on the appointed day ?” 

“ Yes, Providence permitting.” 

“ Then, Doctor Goodwin, if you will accept my com- 
pany, I will go with you. I did intend to spend the 
spring in London, to give my dear wife some oppor- 
tunity of seeing good English society ; but, since the 
awful disaster which has bereaved me of her, I cannot 
bear to think of carrying out any arrangement alone 
which we had planned to enjoy together. I must re- 
turn to my native country, get reinstated in the army 
and go upon some active frontier service. There I may 
find self-forgetfulness. So, if you will accept my com- 
pany, I will go with you.” 

“ My dear colonel, you could not do me a greater 
favor. And you need take no trouble about your pass- 
age. Consider it already secured. I engaged a whole 
large stateroom amidships, so as not to be forced to 
share it with a stranger. But I should be pleased with 
the companionship of a friend. And, if you will honor 
me by taking half of my stateroom, I shall be delighted.” 


FORSAKEN. 


3^7 


CHAPTER XXX. 

FORSAKEN. 

Go, be sure of my love by that treason, forgiven. 

Of my prayers, by the blessings, they win thee, from heaven. 
Of my grief (guess the length of the sword by the sheath’s) 
By the silence of life more pathetic than death’s. 

Go, be clear of that day l—£. B. Browning. 

Sallust Rowley’s dreams had been so haunted by vis- 
ions of the burning ship on the midnight sea, with all 
its attendant horrors, that when he awoke late in the 
morning, he did not experience that distressing feeling 
of bewilderment, which usually attends the awakening 
from a deep and dreamless sleep, in a strange locality, 
after some awful disaster. 

He sprang out of bed, drew on his clothes, which 
were a little stiff and harsh from the salt sea water, and 
groped his way down the dark and narrow stairs that 
led from the loft to the large common front-room or 
kitchen of the cottage. 

There he found the fisherman’s comely wife sitting 
on a low stool in the midst of a drift of nets which she 
was engaged in mending. 

On seeing her guest, she arose hastily, dropped her 
long netting-needle, extricated herself from the en- 
tanglement of her coarse work and arose to meet him, 
exclaiming cheerily : 

“ Good moriiing, sir. I am glad to see you up and 
looking so well. I hope you slept, sir,” she added, hand- 
ing him a chair. 

“ Thanks. I slept very well indeed, owing to your 
good care of me ; though I dreamed all night of the 
shipwreck,” said Sallust, sinking into the offered seat. 


328 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Aye, indeed, that was likely enough,” sighed the 
good woman. 

“How is your patient this morning, Mrs. Reyn- 
olds r 

“ Well, sir, your good lady, sir, is all right this morn- 
ing, and she wishes to see you the first thing.” 

Sallust drove his long fingers through his flame- 
colored hair and gazed at the speaker in bewilderment, 
being “ perplexed in the extreme ” by her talk of his 
“ good lady.” 

“ Now here am I talking when I ought to take you to 
her, for she asked to see you as soon as you should 
wake. But, perhaps, sir, you had better get your break- 
fast first ; it is all ready.” 

“ No, I thank you, ma’am. I would rather go and see 
the lady first,” replied Sallust. 

“Very well,” assented the matron, laughing good- 
humoredly, and then adding, “that was just what she 
said when I wished her to take some nourishment this 
morning : ‘No,’ says she, ‘ I do not want anything to 
eat. I only want to see my husband as soon as he 
awakes. Do not disturb him, dear, good friend ’ — (that is 
what the little angel called me^ sir) — ‘do not disturb 
him, dear, good friend,’ she said, ‘ but bring him to me 
as soon as he is up and dressed.’ ” 

“ Exactly,” said Sallust, ruminating deeply, while the 
woman went on : 

“Just the same as yourself, sir. You don’t want 
anything to eat — you only want to see your dear wife ! 
She don’t want anything to eat — she only wants to see 
her dear husband ! Oh, these young honeymoonatics ! 
They don’t care for anything in life but each other ! 
No, not even for their natural victuals and drink ! Ah, 
they get bravely over that when the man growls because 
the meat is overdone, and the woman murmurs because 


FORSAKEN. 


329 


she can’t have a new bonnet every time she wants one !” 
mentally added the matron. 

“ What in the dee does all this mean ?” cogitated 
Sallust Rowley, in utter confusion of ideas. “ Does 
this fisherwoman really take Gertrude and myself for a 
married pair ? It would seem so, and a great goose she 
must be to think it. But what does Gertrude mean ? 
Does she also take me and herself to be man and wife ? 
She couldn’t make such a mistake as that if she was in 
her right senses. And, last of all, I wonder if I am in 
mine ! One of us three must be tight or mad ; that 
much is reduced to a certainty !” 

“ Shall I show you into your good lady’s room now, 
sir ?” inquired the matron. 

“ By all manner of means. Lead the way.” 

Mrs. Reynolds went to the door leading into the 
back chamber, softly opened it and passed in. 

Gertrude lifted her eyes with a happy smile, to greet 
her hostess. Thus reassured Mrs Reynolds opened the 
door and said : 

“Come in, sir ! Come right in ! Your good lady is 
ready to see you !” 

Sallust immediately entered the chamber, and the 
hostess passed out into the kitchen, closing the door 
after her. 

Sallust shyly approached the bedside, feeling as if he 
were treading upon forbidden ground. 

Gertrude started up and held out her arms, ex- 
claiming : 

“ Oh, Gerald ! Oh, Gerald !” 

Then seeing her mistake, she gave one long, amazed 
look at the intruder, and muttering, with white lips : 

Sallust Rowley! Great heaven she sank back, 
half fainting, on her pillow. 

Poor Sallust stood confounded. He kne-^Tnot whether 


330 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


to keep his post or to turn and fly. He ran his slender 
fingers into his red hair and stirred it up until it crackled 
and sparkled with electricity like a little bonfire. 

“ Oh, heaven ! What mistake is this ? What does it 
all mean ?” moaned Gertrude. 

‘‘ You did not expect to see me here, then, Miss Had- 
don ?” Sallust at length found courage to ask, though in 
a perplexed and aggrieved tone. 

She did not answer but covered her face with her 
hands as if to shut out her view of him. 

“ Why, what is the matter. Miss Haddon ? This is 
all very strange,” said the bewildered Sallust. 

She replied only by piteous moans. 

“ Oh, Lord, this is just dreadful ! What ails you. 
Miss Gertrude ? Do tell me !” 

Deep sighs heaved her bosom. 

Presently she roused herself and said with gentle 
dignity : 

“No words of mine or of any one would be eloquent 
enough to thank a man who has risked his life to save 
mine ; but I am somewhat surprised and confused. I — 
I supposed that I owed my life to Colonel Fitzgerald.” 

“ Whom, Gerald ? Oh, to be sure he had hold of you 
when I first saw you, though, mind you, I did not know 
it was you then. But he did have hold of you, and he 
dropped you when he saw his own wife in danger.” 

“ ‘ His wife ?’ ” repeated Gertrude, almost uncon- 
sciously. 

“Yes, his wife ; Miss Geraldine Fitzgerald that was, 
you know. I say he had hold of you ; but whenLe saw 
her in danger, he dropped you and went for her. He 
was obliged to do it ! She was his wife, you know ! He 
had to do it ! No one but a coward, a traitor and a vil- 
lain would leave his own wife to perish while he saved 
another woman !” 


FORSAKEN. 


B31 


“ Hush, hush ! Oh, be silent !" wailed Gertrude, writh- 
ing in anguish. 

A period of silence ensued. 

“Mr. Rowley,” she said, removing her hands from 
her eyes, and looking at him, for the first time for 
many minutes ; “ I must set you right about Colonel 
Fitzgerald.” 

“ Colonel Fitzgerald again ? Set fire to him !” mut- 
tered Sallust, between his teeth. 

“ Miss Geraldine Fitzgerald was not the wife of 
Colonel Fitzgerald,” said Gertrude. 

“ Geraldine Fitzgerald not the wife of Colonel Fitz- 
gerald !” echoed Sallust, in incredulous amazement. 

“ No, Mr. Rowley, she was not.” 

“ This is stunning ! But are you sure ?” 

“ Perfectly sure.” 

“ Then Fitzgerald is not married, after all ?” 

“ Yes, he is married.” 

“ To whom is he married, then, in heaven’s name ?” 

“Tome.” 

“ To your 

“Yes.” 

“ Heaven and earth and — and the other place !” 

At any less serious time, Gertrude might have smiled 
at his look of perfect stupefaction. 

“ Mr. Rowley,” said Gertrude, with grave sweetness, 
“ I hope you will believe how deeply grateful I feel to 
you for all you have done for me. I hope you will par- 
don my seeming insensibility. I was mistaken in the 
first instance, then surprised and confused. I hardly 
knew what I said or did. You will pardon me ?” 

“ Oh, my dear Mrs. Fitzgerald, do not mention it. I 
can perfectly understand it all now,” said Sallust, with 
an involuntary sigh, as he arose to leave the room. 
“ And now, my dear lady, I hope you will trust me, and 


83 ^ 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


use me and abuse me, too, if you have occasion. Lord ! 
Why, you might confide in me as if I were your grand- 
father, and order me round as if I were your servant,” he 
added enthusiastically. 

“ I am very sure that I might, but I will not abuse 
your kindness, Mr. Rowley. Tell me one thing : Do 
you know the name of the vessel whose boats picked up 
the crew and passengers of the Messenger V 

“ No, but I reckon Mrs. Reynolds, the fisherman’s 
wife, does. I will send her in to you, and you can ask 
her.” 

“Thanks. Do so.” 

Sallust left the room, muttering to himself : 

“ Very hard on a cove, though, to save the girl he 
dotes on for some other fellow who don’t care a snap 
for her, but leaves her to perish, while he looks after 
another woman ! ‘ So runs the world away !’ ” 

As soon as she was left alone, all Gertrude’s short- 
lived courage died within her. 

Again sobs swelled her bosom, shudders shook her 
frame, moans issued from her lips. 

Here the anguish of her heart became so profound, 
intense and insupportable that it produced a reaction— 
a necessary reaction — for that or death or madness must 
have come. Again she seized and clung to the faith 
with which she had tried to keep her soul from sinking 
in despair — the belief that he did not mean to abandon 
her. In this mood she began to say to herself : 

“ He surely never meant to forsake me ! Oh, what a 
heavenly hope is in that thought ! I must believe it ! I 
must believe it or lose my reason or my life ! He knew 
I was a good swimmer ! He often said, in disapproval 
of my skill in that exercise, that I had had a boy’s train- 
ing rather than a girl’s. He remembered this accom- 
plishment of mine ; he knew I was a good swimmer, but 


FORSAKEN. 


333 


he did not know how exhausted I was from' having held 
up that poor little child so long. He knew that Ger- 
aldine could not swim at all. He heard her cry to him 
for help ; he saw her sinking ; and he left me — not to 
die — but to keep myself afloat until he could rescue her, 
get her on the boat and return for me. The boat was 
so near, too. He thought I could surely keep afloat 
until he could rescue the really helpless woman and re- 
turn for me. He did not know how spent I was. How 
could he have known ? He was mistaken — not cruel,‘ 
not false — only fatally mistaken ; and I, who should be 
the last to doubt him, have been wronging him in my 
thoughts, while he has been mourning . me dead. I must 
hasten to him, my Gerald ! Not until I have told him 
this, with my head on his bosom, can I have rest.” 

So she had again attained some degree of calmness 
by the time Mrs. Reynolds came into her room. The 
good woman sat down by the bedside, saying pleasantly : 

“ I would have come in sooner, ma’am, only I stopped 
to get a bit of breakfast for the dear gentleman, thinking 
he had been long enough without it ; which I think, 
ma’am, as yourself ought to take some nourishment at 
once.” 

Thanks, Mrs. Reynold^ ; I will not take anything 
until I rise. I am quite able to get up, though a little 
weak,” said Gertrude, gratefully. 

“ I think, my dear, you would find you are not so 
very able, if you were to try to stand. You had better 
rest a few hours longer and let me bring you something 
here.” 

“ Not just yet, Mrs. Reynolds. I have an explanation 
to make and a question to ask. You mistook Mr. 
Rowley for my husband, did you not ?” 

“ Why, of course, I did,” exclaimed the woman. 

“ And you led me into the same error when you told 


334 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


me that my husband was safe in the house ; for, having- 
been unconscious when I was picked up, I did not know 
who had rescued me, and I supposed, from your words, 
that it had been my husband. Colonel Fitzgerald.’’ 

“ My poor, dear child ! How disappointed you must 
have been !” 

“Yes,” murmured Gertrude, with a sigh, but seeing 
the deeply sympathetic and troubled face of her kind 
hostess, Gertrude hastened to add the hopeful words : 
“But I know that my husband is safe all the same, 
Mrs. Reynolds. And now, the question I have to ask 
you, Mrs. Reynolds : Do you know what ship it was 
that picked up the crew and passengers of the Mes- 
senger?'' 

“Yes, dear; she was the Mary Jane y bound from 
Havre to London.” 

“ Oh, I am glad of that j We were en route for 
London when we were wrecked. We have a friend 
there^ — the clergyman who married us. Colonel Fitz- 
gerald will immediately communicate with him, I am 
sure. So I know where to find him ! Oh, I am so glad 
of that !” exclaimed Gertrude, forgetting in her excite- 
ment that she had neither strength nor money nor 
clothing sufficient for the journey. 

New hope inspired Gertrude with courage, and cour- 
age gave her strength, and, despite all Mrs. Reynolds’s 
remonstrances, she determined to rise and put on her 
clothes. 

Water and towels were brought to her. And when 
she had washed her face and combed her hair, her trav- 
elling-suit of dark-blue cloth was laid before her, dried 
and pressed, but still much the worse for its deep-sea 
bath. * 

By the time she had completed her simple toilet, she 
felt very much exhausted, and had to lean on the arm 


FORSAKEN. 


335 


of her good hostess, as she walked from the bedroom to 
the kitchen. 

Here she found Sallust Rowley, who immediately 
sprang up from the stool upon which he was sitting, and 
brought forward the one cushioned arm-chair that the 
cottage could boast, and into it Gertrude sank, feeling 
as weak as an infant. 

Their kind hostess bustled about and prepared a cup 
of tea and a round of dried toast, which she arranged 
neatly on a little table before her guest. 

Meanwhile, Gertrude questioned her fellow-traveller. 

“ How soon will it be possible for us to go to London, 
Sallust 

The young man exchanged glances with Mrs. Reyn- 
olds, and answered discreetly : 

‘‘ Not before the day after to-morrow, I think. You 
know we have neither proper clothing nor money, and 
we have to see to the providing of those necessaries be- 
fore we can go.” 

Gertrude had gone through too many degrees of deep 
suffering within the past few days to let a trifling delay 
like this disappoint her. But she looked a little more 
serious, as she said : 

** Well, I will write to Golonel Fitzgerald, to the care 
of Doctor Goodwin, to-day, so that he shall be prepared 
to receive us.” 


336 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 

Who shall give to the dead leaves their greenness again? 

Alas ! Who shall gather the lost drops of rain ? 

Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath rent? 

Who shall bring forth the winds that within them are pent? 

To a voice, who shall render an image; or who 

From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew ? 

Who shall bring back the dove that has flown far away? 

That has flown and returns not, through many a day. 

— Owen Meredith. 

The passage of the hours only deepened the gloom 
that was settling upon the soul of Gerald Fitzgerald. 
Time, in drawing him away from the distracting hor- 
rors of the wreck, only plunged him in a more profound 
despair. 

If, for a few moments, while in the genial company of 
Doctor Goodwin, he seemed to forget the awful disaster 
which had desolated his life, it was only to recall it with 
renewed anguish as soon as he found himself alone. 

And, oh, ever and ever his mind concentrated itself 
with morbid persistence upon one question — one ques- 
tion that ever and ever recurred with cruel pertinacity 
of iteration : 

“ Was Gertrude killed by the blow from the plank 
that struck her from me ? Or was she drowned through 
my mad, delirious abandonment of her? Was she the 
victim of an unavoidable accident ? Or am I, in effect, 
a traitor and a murderer ?” 

And with this question ever arose the vision — the 
vision that must haunt his memory while memory 
should exist — the vision of the young, beautiful pale 
face, visible for one moment, with its sad dark eyes 


THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


337 


turned on him — visible for one moment and then 
whelmed beneath the waves ! 

Oh ! What said those dying eyes to him ? They did 
not reproach him. He knew that. They wore a look 
of sorrow too deep for anger or reproach. 

Doctor Goodwin, noticing this increasing gloom and 
despondency of the soul-sick man, sought to draw him 
out from himself— to draw him out into the life of ac- 
tion around them. 

But in vain, for Gerald Fitzgerald seemed to have 
lost all interest in the world. 

All society, of course, he avoided during these first 
days of his deep mourning. But as this mourning was 
not only in externals but from the prbfoundest depths 
of his soul, he could not bear as yet to go into any 
assemblage of human beings, not even to a meeting at 
Exeter Hall or to services at any public place of wor- 
ship. 

A solitary stroll in some of the public parks, early in 
the morning, late at night or at some hour when the 
world was sure to be away, was his only exercise and 
his only change from the quiet dullness of Doctor Good- 
win’s lodgings. 

One day the worthy doctor made him a new proposal. 
It was a fine day, still early in February, and the two 
gentlemen were lingering over their late breakfast, 
when Doctor Goodwin, noticing that his guest ate 
nothing, spoke but little and thought a great deal, sud- 
denly said to him : 

“ Fitzgerald, do you know that this is the 7 th of Feb- 
ruary ?” 

“ Well ?” indifferently questioned the colonel. 

“And do you remember that we sail on the ist of 
March ?” 

“ Yes, of course. Yes,’’ answered Fitzgerald. 


338 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ We have three more weeks on our hands, with noth- 
ing in particular to occupy us.” 

“ Well ?” 

^‘Well, I agree with good Doctor Watts that ‘Satan 
finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.’ Yes, and 
idle minds also ! Now what Satan finds for your idle 
mind to do is to brood morbidly over your affliction to 
the destruction of your mental and bodily health. 
Rouse yourself, my dear Gerald ! Rouse yourself !” 
said Doctor Goodwin, earnestly, as he laid his hand on 
the shoulder of his guest. 

“ My dear doctor, to live at all and bear what I must 
bear requires all the fortitude I can command. Many 
a man, better, wiser, stronger than I am has taken ‘ his 
quietus ' under the pressure of a lighter burden of grief 
and — remorse than I sustain and groan with, day and 
night. Do not blame my weakness that I mourn. Com- 
mend my courage, rather, that I live,” said Colonel 
Fitzgerald, with a faltering voice and darkening brow. 

“ Remorse ? Gerald, did you say remorse f” questioned 
Doctor Goodwin, with a troubled tone and look. 

“Aye, remorse! I said remorse — the deepest, 
keenest, bitterest remorse that ever preyed upon the 
heart of man,” groaned Fitzgerald. 

Oh, but this is morbid, my friend— yet it is very 
common, Gerald, so common as to seem the constant 
shadow of grief. In my long ministry I have been 
called to attend innumerable mourners. But I have 
never yet met one who could say or did say : ‘ Thank 
heaven, I have nothing to reproach myself with, in my 
conduct toward my dear gone one !’ No, Gerald, it 
was always something like this : ‘ Oh, it is not only 

sorrow I have to suffer ; but, oh, I can never forgive 
myself for ’ — whatever it might be ; usually some trifling 
or even some imaginary wrong, slight or neglect. Yes, 


THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


B39 

Gerald, I never saw one real mourner who did not 
groan as much in self-reproach as in grief. No loving 
husband ever lost his wife, no devoted mother ever lost 
her child, no dutiful child ever lost a parent, without 
having the pangs of compunction added to those of sor- 
row. Even at the tomb of Lazarus — but that is too 
sacred and tender for comment ; it is for reverential 
contemplation only. However, Fitzgerald, I only wish 
to impress upon your mind that your self-upbraidings 
are common attendants of bereavement and to warn 
you to hold them only as such and not to let tender 
compunction sink into morbid remorse.” 

“ Oh, sir, you do not know — you cannot know ! Mine 
is no common sorrow, no common regret ! ‘ Some day, 
when I can bear to tell you, you shall know all.” 

“Well, Gerald! Well, you must ‘dree your wierd,' 
as the Scotch say. I do not mean to preach to you, my 
friend. I mean to make another proposition to you.” 

“ I shall be grateful to hear it, Doctor Goodwin.” 

“ You know I have been trying to get you out for the 
last two days ; but I cannot prevail on you to go even 
to church or to Exeter Hall — ” 

“ My dear doctor,” interrupted Fitzgerald, “ I shall 
go into no crowd until I embark on the steamer to go 
home. Once on American shores, I shall ask to be 
reinstated in the army and sent upon active duty. I 
only hope I shall find a plenty to do,” said Fitzgerald. 

“ Very well. I do not wish to alter your plans. Nor 
do I intend to repeat my effort to draw you into any 
public place. But I do say that we must fill up the 
time between this and the ist of March, and I do pro- 
pose that we shall leave London at once and go down 
to Wales, where we can visit quiet places of interest in 
a quiet way until it is time for us to go to Liverpool 
to embark on our steamer. What do you say ?” 


340 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ I have no objection.” 

“ Very well, then ; we will leave London to-morrow 
if you like.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But before leaving London I really ought to run 
down to Norwood to see the worthy market-gardener 
and his wife and have one last interview with them. It 
seems really necessary to do so. They may have re- 
membered some other link in the chain of evidence, or 
else recovered some other letter or other valuable docu- 
ment.” 

“Well, you have time to go to-day.” 

“ Certainly, I have a plenty of time to go there and 
do all I wish to do and return to dinner. But — will you 
not accompany me ?” 

“Well, yes, if you insist upon it.” 

“ I do not insist upon it, but I greatly desire it.” 

“Very well, then, if you greatly desire it, I will go 
with you,” said Gerald Fitzgerald, with an involuntary 
sigh. 

Having gained his point, in winning his guest’s con- 
sent to move anywhere out of the orbit of his sad 
thoughts, Doctor Goodwin arose and rang the bell. 

Jubal, who waited on both gentlemen, in these days, 
answered the summons. 

“ Go and call a cab to take us to London Bridge 
Station. We must catch the ten- thirty train that stops 
at Norwood,” said the doctor. 

“And — wait a moment, Jubal. We are going out for 
the day, and shall not need your services until dinner 
this evening, at the usual hour. To-morrow we leave 
London for Wales. We shall not return hither before 
embarking for the United States. Therefore, you may 
occupy your holiday to-day by going to your sister, who 
is, I hope you remember, at the Royal Cambridge Hotel, 


THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


341 


in attendance upon Miss Fitzgerald. You will ascertain 
if she wishes to return with us to America. If she 
should, you may tell her that I will send you to fetch 
her in time to join us on the steamer. If she should 
wish to remain where she is, however, you will take 
leave of her then and there, for, of course, you are to 
attend us on our Welch tour, and will not return to 
London or have another opportunity of seeing her 
before we sail. Do you understand ?” 

“ Thank y’, sir. Yes, sir, I understand perfect, which, 
I ’m 'most sure, sir, as sister Meta will perfer to go long 
o’ me, sir ; which we ’s never been parted since we was 
chillen, sir ; being all in all to each other, and no father 
and mother living, sir.” 

“ Very well, just as you both please. I promised 
when I parted with her to Miss Fitzgerald to take her 
back with me to her own country, if she should wish to 
return, and I will keep my word. Go, now, and call the 
cab.” 

Jubal bowed and left the room. 

The two gentlemen arose, gathered up some loose- 
lying papers and put them away, and then put on their 
overcoats and gloves and took their hats and stood wait- 
ing for the cab which was soon announced. 

Twenty minutes’ drive took them to the London 
Bridge Station, which they reached just in time to se- 
cure seats on the London and Brighton Parliamentary 
train ; twenty minutes’ ride in the railway carriage 
brought them to the upper Norwood station, where they 
got out, and whence twenty minutes’ walk took them to 
the market-gardener’s little place. 

“ It takes just one hour from Hollis Street to Cherry 
Grove, as this little place is called,” said Doctor Good- 
win, as he opened a green wicker gate in a low stone 
fence that divided the market-garden from the road^ 


342 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


and led the way up a gravel walk bordered each side 
with raspberry bushes, beyond which, on the right and 
left, lay vegetable beds already under cultivation for 
early spring vegetables. 

The house was a lovely old-fashioned farmstead, with 
walls covered with ivy and verandas shaded with creep- 
ing vines, green even now in February. 

Up the moss-grown stone steps and under the vine- 
clad porch the two gentlemen passed to an open door, 
through which they saw a broad passage, with other 
doors on the right and left that led into rooms, now 
closed, and a back-door at the farther end that stood 
open, giving a view of a_ back-yard occupied by a cow 
and a calf and divers hens and chickens, ducks and 
ducklings. 

Though the front-door stood open, the doctor thought 
proper to rap before entering. 

A door on the right-hand back opened, and a plump, 
fair, rosy-faced woman, really fifty-five, but scarcely 
looking forty, dressed in a bright flowered calico, white 
apron, white neckerchief and white cap, came out, 
smiling. 

“ Oh, indeed, and is it you, sir ? ^ I am very glad to 
see you ! Have you heard anything more of our poor, 
dear Magdala, if you please, sir ?” 

“ No, nothing, ma’am ; it could scarcely be expected 
that I should — on this side of the big pond,” said the 
doctor. 

“ Ah, well, we must be patient ! But John and I have 
been that lifted up, even by the shadow of a hope, of a 
chance to hear of her again, sir,” said the woman, ad- 
dressing Fitzgerald, whose grave and sympathetic face 
attracted her confidence. 

“ This is my friend. Colonel Fitzgerald, Mrs. Robins,” 
said the doctor. 


THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


343 


The colonel bowed to the market-gardener’s wife, as 
he would have bowed to a marchioness. 

“ Yes, I know,” said the good woman, courtesying 
deeply ; then, suddenly correcting herself, she added : 
“ Leastways, I don’t know, but I feel as if I did, begging 
your pardon, sir. Your face seems very familiar — quite 
familiar, sir — no offense — familiar as — as — the prince- 
consort’s, sir, so to speak, though I can’t exactly place 
you,” she added, apologetically. 

“ Perhaps I may be able to assist you. Perhaps I can 
place myself in your memory. I think the face I recall 
to you must be that of Adam Lackland, your son-in- 
law,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

That ’s it, sir ! He was the very moral of you when 
he first came to lodge at our house — the very moral of 
you, sir. A relation, perhaps ?” said the woman, bright- 
ening up. 

“ Not that I know of — though he came from Wilde 
County, and all Wilde County are related to each other, 
and, of course, to me,” said the colonel, with a grave 
smile. 

“ See that, now ? I am sure he was a relation. But, 
please to come in, gentlemen, and sit down, ” added the 
good woman, leading the way into a pleasant front-room, 
on the left-hand side, where a bright sea-coal fire burned 
in the grate, and where the broad, low front windows 
were filled with house-plants ; where a good, well-worn 
carpet covered the floor, comfortable chairs stood in the 
most convenient places, and pleasing, if not artistic 
pictures decorated the walls. 

The woman placed easy-chairs for her visitors, and 
invited them to be seated. Then, drawing her knitting 
from her pocket, she sat down and began to knit, while 
waiting for one or the other to speak to her. 

I have brought Colonel Fitzgerald to see you, be- 


344 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


cause he has, within, the last few years, seen your son- 
in-law, Adam Lackland,” said Doctor Goodwin. 

“ Oh, indeed, sir, that is news. But are you sure it 
was he, sir?” exclaimed Jane Robins, very much 
moved. 

“ Nearly quite sure. The name, the personal appear- 
ance of the man and some circumstances of his life 
which have come to my knowledge, combine to identify 
him as the same who married your adopted daughter, 
Magdala H addon, the heiress of old Gabriel H addon, 
of Wilde County, Virginia.” 

“ Oh, sir ! Oh, sir ! What did he tell you — about his 
wife and child, sir ?” exclaimed the woman in eager, 
broken and faltering tones. 

“ He told me,” began Gerald, speaking slowly and 
very tenderly — “ he told me that he had lost them both 
many years ago.” 

“ Oh, yes,” sighed the woman, wiping the tears from 
her eyes — “ oh, yes, to be sure, it must have been so. I 
might have known it. It was foolish to feel a single 
hope that it could have been any other way. If Magdala 
— dear child — had lived, she never would have forgotten 
us or neglected us. We should have heard from her 
every month at least and seen her every year ! But it 
was very cruel of Mr. Lackland not to write and tell 
us of our children’s fate ; for, gentlemen, I and my 
John loved that girl and her baby as much as if they 
had been our very own ! Sir, we didn’t know a bit of 
difference between them. Oh, it was very hard of Mr. 
Lackland not to write and tell us the fate of our 
children,” she repeated, wiping away the tears that 
still arose to her eyes. 

“ Perhaps he was so overwhelmed by the blow as to 
be incapable of writing,” suggested Fitzgerald. 

‘‘ Oh, sir, that might have prevented him for a time. 


THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


345 


but not forever. He ought to have written and told us, 
sir.” 

“ He may have wished to spare you the shock.” 

“ Oh, sir, any shock that comes once for all and then 
is over — any shock, even if it kills one, is better than 
the long — long — long heartache of waiting and hoping 
and fearing, year after year, until life is fairly worn 
out. No, sir, he ought to have written and told us the 
fate of our children, that we might have known it, and 
by the Lord’s grace got over it and been at rest. No, 
sir, there is no excuse for him,” sighed the woman, 
wiping away the last tears from her eyes. 

Colonel Fitzgerald said no more until the woman, 
with a deep sigh, inquired : 

“ Did Mr. Lackland tell you, sir, how he lost his wife 
and child ?” 

“ He said that he had lost them suddenly by a catas- 
trophe. That was really all he told me of them. He 
could not bear to allude to the subject, and he never 
did so but the once,” gently replied Colonel Fitzgerald, 
who, seeing how sensitive the poor woman still remained 
on the subject of her adopted daughter’s fate, wisely 
• refrained froni adding his own convictions on the sub- 
ject. He thought it better that she should continue to 
think her “ children ” long passed to their eternal homes 
than that she should know one, at least, still lived, a 
friendless, homeless, wandering lunatic. 

Now, Doctor Goodwin, true to his instincts as a 
preacher, spoke up and said : 

“ My dear, good creature, you should not permit 
yourself to grieve over an old bereavement like that. 
We all—” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, I know,” interrupted the wom-an, “ and 
if I had known of it at the time I should have grieved 
and got over it all before this ; but now — ’' 


346 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ But now,” interrupted the rector in his turn, you 
have so much to be thankful for in your own children 
that you should rejoice.” 

“ Yes, sir, my children have all done well, thank the 
Lord,” sighed Jane Robins, with her mind still upon 
the lost ones. 

“ Tell me something about them, for, beyond the bare 
fact of your mentioning how well they were all doing, 
I know nothing,” said the doctor, with the view of 
drawing away the woman’s mind from the contempla- 
tion of her one trouble. 

“ Well, sir, it is very kind of you to ask, and I thank 
you. Well, sir, besides Magdala, I had only three of 
’em — a girl, named Jane after me, sir. She was three 
years younger than Magdala. She is doing well, sir. 
She is married to a fisherman at a place called St. 
Margaret’s Bay, on the south coast, near Dover, sir. He 
owns three fishing-smacks and employs about half a 
dozen men under him, sir. He ’s doing a good business 
with the London fishmongers, sir, and is putting by a 
bit of money against a rainy day. They have a fine 
lad and lass of their own, sir. Yes, Jane did very well 
when she married John Reynolds.” 

“ There, now. See what a blessing that is ! And 
the boys ?” said the doctor. 

“ They are doing pretty well, too, sir, though one of 
’em has had trouble lately. Jacob, our oldest son, 
named after my father, sir, is three years younger than 
Jane and six years younger than Magdala. Ah, sir, if I 
had had a son old enough to have married Magdala I 
should have tried to make a match between them, so as 
to have kept her at home ; but. Lor’, my oldest was 
only ten years old when Magdala was married ! Well, 
sir, Jacob, our oldest, is staying home with us, helping 
his father, which he will have this place after us. He 


THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


347 


is not married yet, sir, nor likewise keeping company 
with any young woman which, as he is twenty-eight 
years old, we think it is time he was. I ’m afeared, sir, 
as he ’s agoing to be an old bachelor body, though 
heaven forbid, for he is a good son and a great comfort 
to us.” 

“ Another source of thankful rejoicing ! And the 
other boy ?” 

“John — ^named after his father, sir. Well, sir, John 
is doing very well, too, though he has been visited with 
affliction. John is a painter by trade, sir, and lives in 
London. He married about two years ago, sir, more or 
less, and they had a fine child ; but the mother turned 
delicate and poor John he took her for a little trip 
across to Calais. But Lor’, sir, coming back in the Mes- 
senger^ the ship took fire. Sure, sir, you saw in the 
newspapers all about the burning of the Messenger 

“Yes, certainly,” said Doctor Goodwin, while Colonel 
Fitzgerald bent a more eager ear of attention. 

“ Well, sir, his poor young wife was among the lost. 
I asked him : ‘ How w'as it, John, that you saved your- 
self and couldn’t save her ?’ for, you see, I knowed as 
John would ’a’ died with her rather than ’a’ left her 
drown. But he told me as she was in the boat with 
the women who was to be saved first of all, and where 
no man was allowed to go except the oarsmen who 
were to row the boat ; and how the steerage passengers 
swam for the boat and tried to get in it and swamped 
the boat and so she and many others of the women on 
board were drowned before they could be reached. Oh, 
no sir ! My John is e man ! He would have drowned 
with his wife rather than seen her drown and saved 
himself when he could not save her,” said the mother, 
proudly. 

The words of the good woman, spoken unconscious 


348 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


of offense, seemed to stab the bosom of Fitzgerald 
through and through. He could scarcely suppress a 
groan of anguish as he arose and walked to the window 
and looked out. 

Doctor Goodwin, observing this, thought only that 
the mention of the burnt steamer too vividly recalled 
Colonel Fitzgerald’s bereavement. To slightly change 
the subject, he hastened to say : 

“ But the child ! You said they had one fine boy. 
Was he saved ?” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, sir, I thank the Lord he was saved, and I 
have got him here at home ! He was saved, sir, and of 
all things in the world, he was saved by a young lady ! 
A young angel I call her, and she is a young angel now 
certain ; for after saving John’s child, sir, she was 
herself drowned.” 

“ But that seemed very hard,” said Doctor Goodwin. 

“ Well, it might seem so to our short-sighted eyes, 
sir ! But no one knows better than your reverence 
that it couldn’t be hard for her ! Isn’t she an angel in 
heaven, sir ?” 

“ Yes, I truly believe that she is ; but how did it 
happen that after saving the child, she lost herself ?” 

“ The dear knows, sir ! I don’t ! All I know is what 
John told me : that he met her husband on board the 
relief-ship and learned from him that the lady had been 
lost.” 

“For heaven’s sake, -doctor, drop the subject! The 
lady to whom she alludes was Gertrude,” hoarsely 
whispered Fitzgerald, as he hastily passed the unsus- 
picious Doctor Goodwin in his restless walk about the 
room. 

“And here comes my John now!” cheerfully ex- 
claimed the woman, as she heard the latch of the gate 
click and the heavy step of a man come up the garden 


THE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


349 


walk. “ Poor J ohn slips out here f r6m London every 
chance he gets, to see his baby, poor fellow. Well, 
here he is ! Come in, John !” she added, as Robins, 
the ship-acquaintance of Colonel Fitzgerald, entered 
the room, and seeing visitors, took off his hat and 
bowed low. 

“This is my son John, gentlemen. John, these are 
the gentlemen called to see me on business about 
Magdala Lackland, you know. Colonel Fitzgerald and 
Doctor Goodwin, John. Make your obedience to the 
gentlemen, John,” pursued Mrs. Robins. 

J ohn plucked his forelock and bowed very low, then 
lifting his head, he saw and recognized his benefactor 
of the ship. 

“ Why — is it ? — I declare ! — So it is ! Your servant, 
sir ! We were fellow-passengers on the Messenger^ I 
believe,” said the young man, with some surprise and 
hesitation. 

“ Yes, we were fellow-sufferers on that ill-fated ship,” 
sighed Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Why ! My ! Were you there, sir, too ?” demanded 
Jane Robins, in profound astonishment. 

“ Unfortunately, yes, madam,” answered Fitzgerald. 

“ Mother, this is the gentleman whose wife so nobly 
saved my child,” said John Robins, in a low and 
reverential tone. 

“Well, well, well!” murmured the woman. “And 
so it was your wife, sir, and she was lost ? Oh, I am 
sorrier than I was before, and I was sorry enough, 
then, I am sure. Oh, sir ; do tell me ! How did such 
a dreadful thing happen? After she had saved the 
child’s life to lose her own ?” 

“Mother, hush!” muttered John Robins, in a low, 
earnest tone. “ Don’t you see you put the gentleman 
on the rack ? How can he talk about the manner of his 


350 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


wife’s death ? Why, I can’t talk of — ” His whisper 
broke down in a heavy sigh, and he turned away. 

“Would you like to see the baby, John Will you 
please to excuse me for a minute, gentlemen ?” said 
Mrs. Robins, as, by way of changing the subject, she 
went into the adjoining room and quickly returned with 
the little waif of the wreck in her arms. 

The babe was wide awake, but very quiet until his 
father took him, when he smiled, then laughed and then 
began to crow. John Robins walked off with his child 
to the window. 

Colonel Fitzgerald arose to take leave ; but Doctor 
Goodwin had a few parting words to say. 

“ One of the reasons for our coming here this morning, 
Mrs. Robins,” he began, “ was to inquire whether any 
other evidence of the identity of Magdala Lackland 
with the daughter of Gabriel H addon had turned up ?” 

“ No, sir ; not one,” answered the gardener’s wife. 

“ Another of the reasons was to let you know that we 
sail for New York on the iSt of March, and to leave 
with you our American address, in case you should find 
anything to communicate to us, or should wish to write.” 

“ I thank you kindly, sir.” 

“ Finally, the last, though not the least, reason for our 
coming was to ascertain from you whether, in the event 
of your personal presence being needed, you and Mr. 
Robins would be willing to come over to America to 
testify in this case.” 

“ Well, sir,” replied the woman, slowly and thought- 
fully, “ I don’t see why we mightn’t. In course, I know 
enough to know that our expenses would be paid.” 

“ Certainly,” put in Doctor Goodwin. 

“ And, as me and Robins never had a holiday in our 
lives, I don’t see why we shouldn’t take one now, espe- 
cially as it won’t cost us anything.” 


"ifitE DARKNESS DEEPENS. 


351 


“ Not only will it not cost you anything, but it will 
bring you profit. Besides all your expenses being paid, 
you will also be remunerated for your services as wit- 
nesses.” 

“Yes, sir, I know ; and I don't see why we shouldn't 
go. We '11 never have another such a chance, I 'm 
sure.” 

“ Never in the world,” said Doctor ‘Goodwin. 

“ But, what I cannot understand, sir, is why you gen- 
tlemen care about stirring up this matter, now that 
Magdala and her child are gone ? It does seem to me 
as you '11 only give useless distress to the people who 
own Magdala's estates, which they can't be any use to 
her now, no way,” said Jane Robins, considerately. 

“We must do an act of justice to the memory of Ga- 
briel H addon, even though no children of his should 
survive to profit by it,” gravely replied Doctor Good- 
win, who could not yet bear to wound the kind heart of 
the woman with the news that Gabriel Haddon's lost 
daughter and her own adopted child still lived in the 
person of a wretched, wandering maniac. 

“ Well, sir, Robins isn't here to answer for himself, 
being at the present speaking off to Covent Garden with 
a load of spring vegetables ; but, speaking for both of 
us, sir, I think I may say we '11 come when wanted. 
There 's nothing to prevent but the garden and the 
baby, and the garden can be safely enough left in the 
care of our eldest, Jacob ; and, as for the baby, she will 
be a deal better off with her Aunt Jane, who has chil- 
dren of her own, and one more won't make much differ- 
erence, than she is with me, who has a'most forgot how 
to handle 'em.” 

“ Mother,” here put in John Robins, “ I forgot to tell 
you until this blessed minute that brother-in-law John 
Reynolds saved two of the passengers on the Messenger. 


352 the rejected bride. 

He was out in his fishing-smack, and picked up a lady 
and gentleman — ” 

“ The Lord be thanked when any one is highly hon- 
ored and privileged so to do ! Who were the lady and 
the gentleman as John was so highly favored as to 
save ?” 

“ A Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Rawlins,” answered the 
young man, who now stood tossing his baby up and 
down, and making it crow. 

“ See that, now ! Oh, what have we done to deserve 
such a blessing as to save two fellow-creatures’ lives ? 
How thankful and how humble we ought to be !” fer- 
vently concluded the gardener’s wife. 

Colonel Fitzgerald once more prepared to take leave. 

Doctor Goodwin, on this- occasion, followed his ex- 
ample. 

“ Now, my dear Mrs. Robins, you will keep our ad- 
dress,” said the doctor, handing the good woman a card, 
upon which his name, residence and post-office were 
plainly written. 

“ Oh, yes, sir, I will put it away where it will be per- 
fectly safe,” said Jane Robins, as she received the card 
and held it tightly. 

“ Mr. Robins, I trust that you will bear in mind I am 
responsible for the nurture and education of the young- 
ster you hold in your arms,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“Yes, sir; and thank you, sir! And thank you for 
your princely gift ! I hadn’t a suspicion that there was 
anything in that envelope but your address until after 
I got home, when I opened it and found your check on 
Brown Brothers, bankers, for fifty pounds. It was a 
most princely — ” 

“ You had no difficulty in cashing it ?” inquired Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald, by way of stopping Robins’ vehement 
expressions of gratitude. 


Geraldine's return. 


353 


“ Oh, no, sir, thank you, sir, not so much, only I being 
a poor man, and the check being for a large sum, the 
cashier took the check and stopped me until I named 
the curate of the church I attend, and they could send 
for him to come and prove me identical before giving 
of me the money. That was all, sir — just a little ill 
conwenience which was nothing at all to be compared 
to the advantage, which may the Lord multiply to you 
and yours a thousand fold.” 

“ I thank you, Mr. Robins ; but you greatly exag- 
gerated the trifling service I have been enabled to do. 
Good-bye,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, offering his hand. 

“Good-bye and God bless you, sir,” fervently re- 
sponded the man. 

Then Gerald stopped and kissed his infant prot^ge^ 
murmuring as he did so : “ For Gertrude’s sake.” 

The two gentlemen bade farewell to the Robinses 
and left the house. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Geraldine's return. 

From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret 
Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set; 

Once more, oh, my friends, to your arms and your heart, 
And the “places of old” . . . never, never to part ! 

Once more to the mountains and forests ! Once more 
To the land of my birth and the deep skies of yore. 

— Owen Meredith. 

A rapid walk of twenty minutes brought them to the 
station where they met the London train. They ar- 
rived at London Bridge in due time and took a cab to 
Hollis Street, which they reached a little before their 
usual dinner hour. 


354 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Jiibal met them at the door and took their hats and 
overcoats. 

“Well, boy, what news from the Royal Cambridge ?” 
inquired Fitzgerald. 

“ If you please, sir, the ladies are well. Miss Fitz- 
gerald is going out with the French lady and gentleman 
to a dinner-party, sir, so Meta told me,” replied Jubal, 
touching his forehead. 

“ Oh ! And Meta ? Is she anxious to return with us 
to America ?” 

“Oh, yes, sir! Dreadful so I She don’t like this 
place, sir,” added Jubal, with the freedom of a favorite 
servant. “ She don’t like it one bit. She complains, 
sister does, as it is a place where it is never quite light 
and never quite dark ; never quite night and never 
quite day ; never quite summer and never quite winter ; 
but always betwixt and between everything !” 

“ Upon my word, I think she is right,” exclaimed 
Doctor Goodwin, laughing. 

“ Miss Fitzgerald sent you a letter by my hands, sir,” 
said Jubal. 

“ For me ?” quickly demanded Gerald Fitzgerald. 

“ No, sir ; for Marse Doctor Goodwin, sir. It is up- 
stairs, sir.” 

“ Very well ; go upstairs and get it. Come, doctor,” 
said Gerald Fitzgerald, as he followed his man up to the 
second floor, front. 

It was both parlor and dining-room, and Jubal had 
made it look very comfortable and attractive. 

A bright little sea-coal fire was burning in the grate, 
and the little table was set for the tite-a-tHe dinner. 
A pleasant twilight shade was brightened only by the 
glow of the sea-coal fire. 

“ Give Doctor Goodwin his letter and light the gas, 
Jubal,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, who, then, turning to 


Geraldine’s return. 


355 


the doctor, added : “ Forgive me for taking the liberty 
to give orders in your house, sir.” 

“ My dear Gerald, the house is your own ! Order 
everything and everybody in it, from the little maid-of- 
all-work to the landlady,” cheerfully replied the doctor, 
as he received his letter from the hands of Jubal, who 
immediately after lighted the gas and drew the curtains. 

The doctor sank into his arm-chair and began to read 
his letter. 

Fitzgerald walked restlessly about the room. 

Jubal went down-stairs to bring up the soup. 

“Well!” exclaimed Doctor Goodwin, ‘when he had 
finished Geraldine’s note. “ This is strange 1” 

“ What, my dear doctor ?” inquired Fitzgerald, as he 
came and seated himself beside his friend. 

“ Miss Fitzgerald has written to me a few lines to say 
that she hears from our servant that I — she does not 
say anything about you — that I am going to America 
by the Asia^ which is to sail on the ist of March ; that 
she desires, above all things, to return to her native 
land ; that she has only waited to hear of some friend 
or acquaintance, or of some other proper person, who 
might be going over, and whose protection she might 
ask for the voyage ; and if I will be so kind as to 
afford her my escort, she will very gladly and gratefully 
avail herself of so good an opportunity to return home. 
She says all this, but she does not say one word of you, 
although she must know that you are also going by the 
same steamer with me.” 

“ Oh, Miss Fitzgerald knows quite well that I am 
going with ydu. She knows this from Jubal and Meta; 
but she is quite right in ignoring me and placing herself 
directly under the escort of a gentleman whose age, 
profession and character render him so peculiarly well- 
fitted for the pleasant duty,” said Gerald, gravely. 


356 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ She farther requests me,” said Doctor Goodwin, re- 
ferring to his note, “ to ascertain whether she can get a 
stateroom on the Asm” 

“ I fear that will be impossible,” said Colonel Fitz- 
gerald. 

“ I know that will be impossible,” added Doctor Good- 
win, emphatically, “ for when I engaged our stateroom, 
there was not another berth left in the first cabin. I 
will tell you what we can do — that is, of course, if it 
should be agreeable to you.” 

“ What ?” inquired the colonel. 

“ We can give up our double stateroom to Miss Fitz- 
gerald and her maid. We can easily take one of the 
two berths in the second cabin, which you engaged for 
Jubal and Meta. Then we can send Jubal to the steer- 
age, which, however full, has always room for one more, 
and Meta, of course, to be in attendance upon Miss 
Fitzgerald, must share her stateroom. What do you 
say to this plan, colonel ?” 

I think you are very kind to sacrifice your own con- 
venience to such a very great extent. Doctor Goodwin, 
and, of course, I, on my part, am perfectly willing to 
adopt any plan for the accommodation of Miss Fitz- 
gerald,” said Gerald. 

“ I thought you would be,” observed the good doctor. 
Then, referring to her note again, he said : 

“ Miss Geraldine also requests me, in the event of my 
being able to secure a passage for her, to write and let 
her know when and where she can join me, for she 
adds that she will not trouble me to return to London 
to fetch her. Now, let us see, Gerald. To-morrow 
morning we leave London for Wales, do we not ?” 

‘‘ Certainly, unless we should see cause to change our 
plans.” 

“Very well ! Then we shall not return to London ; 


Geraldine's return. 


357 


but after a leisurely tour through Wales and Cornwall, 
we shall proceed to Liverpool to join our ship.” 

“Of course.” 

“ Shall I write to Miss Fitzgerald this evening, telling 
her a comfortable stateroom on the Asia has been 
secured for her, and request her to join us at Liver- 
pool, on the 28th of February at latest ?” 

“ My dear Doctor Goodwin, if you please. It is your 
affair ; not mine. Miss Fitzgerald has very properly 
ignored me in the whole arrangement,” said Fitzgerald, 
indifferently. 

“ Well, Jubal can take my letter after dinner. I sup- 
pose he will not object to see his favorite sister again 
to-night.” 

“Jubal is entirely at your service and Miss Fitzger- 
ald’s, my dear doctor,” said the colonel. 

“ Thanks ! Well, now we '11 have dinner, and then I 
hope we shall feel better,” said Doctor Goodwin, pleas- 
antly. 

After the two gentlemen had dined. Colonel Fitzger- 
ald took a book and lay down on the sofa to read. Doc- 
tor Goodwin wrote his letter to Miss Fitzgerald and 
dispatched it by Jubal. 

Then he also settled himself on a sofa, not to read, but 
to take his usual after-dinner nap. He slept two hours, 
at the end of which he was awakened by the return of 
Jubal, with the second letter from Miss Fitzgerald. 

The doctor aroused himself, and read it aloud to 
Colonel Fitzgerald. 

It contained but a few lines, expressive of her grati- 
tude to Doctor Goodwin, and her intention to join him 
at Liverpool on the 28th of February. 

“ Well, Gerald, what do you say ?” 

“I suppose,” said Fitzgerald, indifferently, “that will 
be satisfactory.” 


358 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

WHAT GERTRUDE MET. 

Oh, soul, that tempests never shook, 

A word, a breath like this hath shaken. 

— Thomas Moore. 

When Gertrude had put away from her, as sin, every 
doubt of her husband’s love, and had confirmed herself 
in the faith that he had never meant to leave her to 
perish, but that their violent parting on the water had 
been the result of a disastrous accident, she began to 
sympathize with his distress ; yes, to feel it as keenly as 
if she had been an unseen eye-witness of his anguish. 

“ Oh, I must write to him at once,” she thought. ‘‘ I 
must write to him at once, so that he shall be prepared 
to receive us. I must not let him wait in sorrow until 
we come. Oh, I know how Gerald suffers ! I know it, 
by what I should feel, if he were taken from me.” 

And with these thoughts, she hastened to the fisher- 
man’s wife, and inquired : 

“Oh, Mrs. Reynolds, where is the nearest post-office ?” 

“ At St. Margaret’s, of course, my dear, about half a 
mile from here.” 

“ I thought this was St. Margaret’s.” 

“ This is St. Margaret’s Bay, my dear. St. Margaret’s 
village is about half a mile up.” 

“ And the post-office is there, you say.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And when does the London mail go out ?” 

“ Ah, that I can’t tell you, my dear. I never have 
nothing to do with the post-office.” 

“ Does Mr. Reynolds know ?” 

“ In course, he does, dear ; whenever any letters come 


WHAT GERTRUDE MET. 


359 


or go, in course, he fetches and carries them. But it 
ain't much as he has to do with the post-office either, 
for it is very few letters we write and very few we get. 
I receive a letter once in a long while from my mother 
and father, who live at Norwood ; and John, he gets one 
now and then from the fishmongers he supplies in Dover 
and in London ; and, of course, we have to answer our 
letters." 

“ Where is Mr. Reynolds now ? Can I ask him about 
the post-office hours ?" 

“ Why, Lor', no, dear. I 'm so sorry. He and both 
the boys are out with the fishing-smack, and will likely 
be out all night. They are oftener than not." 

“ Well, then, Mrs. Reynolds, can you please lend me 
writing materials ? I will write a few lines at once and 
ask Mr. Rowley to walk over with them to St. Marga- 
ret’s post-office ; and if you would also kindly lend me 
a penny to pay the postage, he could post my letter, and 
no time would be lost." 

“ I will see, my dear, and if I have got any you shall 
have them. You are welcome to everything you need, 
my dear ; and I am so thankful that you lived at all, I 
wouldn't think of begrudging the best thing in the 
house to you. As for the writing materials, them 's 
trifles,'" said the good woman, rising, and dropping her 
nets from her lap. 

She went to her corner cupboard and after rum- 
maging about for some time, produced an inkstand and 
a stump of a pen ; but the ink had dried up and the pen 
was split 

“ Almost any sort of a pen will do, Mrs. Reynolds," 
said Gertrude, noticing the look of dismay on the 
woman's face as she stood holding up the dry inkstand 
in one hand and the spoiled goose-quill in the other. 

Well, there ! It 's a shame ! But then, we have so 


360 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


little use for them, my dear ! No, you couldn’t write with 
this. Not even a lead-pencil in the house, either ! Nor 
a scrap of writing-paper can I find ! It is too bad ! 
But I tell you what, my dear : We can borrow them 
all from the parish schoolmaster, who lives not ten yards 
from this.” 

“ Oh, do^ Mrs. Reynolds — I shall be so much obliged 
to you !” 

The good woman called her little daughter from the 
adjoining chamber where the child had been busy mak- 
ing Gertrude’s bed, and said : 

“Run, my lass, to Master Simson, and ask him to 
lend me the loan of a pen, ink and sheet o’ paper and 
an invelup.” 

The child danced away to do her errand. 

“ Oh ! Why, the schoolmaster could tell us about the 
post-office hours,” hastily suggested Gertrude. 

“ Sure enough ! So he could ! I ’ll tell my girl to 
ask him,” eagerly exclaimed the fisher’s wife, jumping 
up and running out to call back her messenger. 

But the little lass had made such good speed that she 
was out of sight and hearing. 

“ Never mind, I can send her back to inquire,” said 
Mrs. Reynolds, as she returned to the house and settled 
herself down to her net-mending again. 

“ Do you know where Mr. Rowley is ?” inquired Ger- 
trude. 

“Yes, dear, he walked down to the shore to see the 
fishing- smacks go off. He said he should take a stroll 
on the beach and then come back. I think he ’ll be 
here soon.” 

As the woman spoke, the door opened and the little 
messenger entered, attended by the schoolmaster. 

The latter was a little, slim, gray-haired old man, 
with a fair, mild, pleasant face. 


WHAT GERTRUDE MET. 


361 


“ Oh ! I ’m so thankful you thought to come back 
with my girl, Mr. Simson. This lady here wanted to 
ask you some questions about the post-office. This is 
the lady John had the great blessing and privilege to 
save from the wreck. I ’m sure we can't do too much 
to show our sense of such a mercy.” 

The schoolmaster took ofE his shabby black hat and 
bowed to the “ lady,” who arose and with the kindly 
custom of her native country gave him her hand. 

“ I beg to congratulate you on your great deliver- 
ance, my dear young lady,” said the old teacher. 

“ I thank you, sir,” answered Gertrude. 

“ Come, sit right down in this arm-chair, Mr. Simson, 
and make yourself comfortable,” said Mrs. Reynolds, 
drawing forward John’s own especial throne for the 
accommodation of the little old parish pedagogue. 

“I thank you, madam. You said — you said, I think, 
this lady required some information of me. The little 
girl told me nothing of the sort. My coming here was 
only to see if I could be of any service to the ship- 
wrecked parties. May I now ask how I can be so ?” 
inquired the gentle old teacher, as he settled himself in 
the arm-chair. 

“ You are very kind, sir,” said Gertrude, taking upon 
herself to answer : “ I wished to know at what hour the 
mail for Dover and London leaves St. Margaret’s post- 
office.” 

“ Yes, my dear young lady. The mail leaves every 
morning at four o’clock. That is so very early that you 
should post your letters the night previous, if you would 
insure their getting-off. The mail from London and 
Dover also reaches the post-office once a day — not, how- 
ever, in the morning, but in the evening.” 

“ Then there is no mail leaves St. Margaret’s for Dover 
and London in the evening ?” 


362 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


‘‘No, my dear young lady ; and, as I said before, if 
you wish to send a letter by the next mail, you must 
post it this evening. The little girl said that you wished 
writing materials. Here they are quite at your service, 
as I also am myself. I hope you will command me,” 
concluded the old schoolmaster, as he laid an inkstand, 
a bundle of quill pens and a parcel of paper on the 
broad window-sill, near which they sat, and took up his 
shabby hat to leave. 

“ I am very grateful to you, Mr. Simson,” said Ger- 
trude, gently. 

The old man bowed, deprecatingly. 

“Won’t you sit longer, Mr. Simson?” inquired the 
good woman, politely. 

“No, I thank you, Mrs. Reynolds ; I have about a 
half a hundred copies to set and pens to mend before 
going to rest to-night,” answered the old pedagogue, 
with some little pride in his profession and usefulness. 

And so saying, he bowed and walked out of the 
cottage. 

“ Now, there ’s a good man,” said Mrs. Reynolds, who 
had the rare habit of ignoring and depreciating all her 
own merits and good works and acknowledging and* 
exalting all those of others. 

Gertrude took her writing-materials and sat down to 
the only table in the room to write a long letter to her 
husband, assuring him of her safety and of her perfect 
delight in knowing that he was also safe. 

She related the manner of her rescue as it had been 
told to her. She expressed a keen regret that he should 
have been left to suffer any distress in regard to her 
fate, and an earnest hope that she might be able to 
follow her letter within a few hours after sending it. 
She did not assure him that she felt convinced he had 
never intended to abandon her to perish in the sea. 


WHAT GRRTRUDE MET. 


363 


With the tender delicacy that only love could inspire, 
she avoided referring to the incident of their separation 
on the waves, and let the whole tone of her letter 
breathe unwavering faith and love. 

So she closed, folded and placed it in an evelope, 
which she directed to Colonel Fitzgerald, at the address 
of Doctor Goodwin, London. 

She had scarcely completed her grateful task, when 
Sallust Rowley entered the cottage, looking fresh and 
vigorous from his seaside walk. 

“ Oh, Mr. Rowley, I am going to ask you to do me a 
favor — to walk over to St. Margaret’s and post this 
letter. The village is only half a mile off, Mrs. Reyn- 
olds says/' said Gertrude, handing her letter. 

“ My dear Mrs. Fitzgerald, I would do your errand to 
the post-office if it was half a dozen miles or even half 
a hundred miles off !” eagerly exclaimed the young 
man, as he took the letter, arose, clapped the fisher- 
man’s broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head and at 
once set off on his walk to the village. 

I would like to be useful to you while I stay here, 
Mrs. Reynolds,” said Gertrude, as soon as Sallust had 
left her alone with the fisherman’s wife ; “ so if you 
will just show me that stitch and give me a needle and 
some twine, I will help you to mend your nets.” 

“ The idea of a young lady like you doing such coarse 
work as this !” said the dame. 

“ But I should like to do it very much, Mrs. Reynolds. 
I feel dull for the want of something useful to do.” 

“ Very well, my dear ; I never interfere with any- 
body’s freedom of action, when it is not really necessary. 
When my babies used to cry for the candle, I just let 
them touch it once, and they never wanted to do it 
again. You ’ll hurt your fingers with this twine ; but 
you have a right to do so, if you like,” replied Jane 


364 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


Reynolds, as she drew a second netting-needle from her 
pocket and began to instruct Gertrude in the art and 
mystery of mending nets. 

Gertrude was a quick pupil, and soon learned the 
simple stitch. 

While she was giving efficient help to her hostess, she 
was thinking only of her husband. How was he bear- 
ing her supposed loss ? Was he suffering deeply in 
mind? Ah, she felt keenly sure that he was. How 
soon would her letter reach him ? She calculated that 
if the letter should leave St. Margaret’s early the next 
morning, it would get to London in the forenoon, and 
be in Colonel Fitzgerald’s hands by noon. 

“ Another night of mourning for your lost wife, Ger- 
ald ! Oh, my love, my king, that I had the wings of a 
dove to fly to you and bring you peace !” she murmured, 
to herself, as her fingers patiently plied the netting- 
needle. 

She was still at work when the door opened and Sal- 
lust Rowley reentered the cottage, sat down, took off 
his great straw hat and flung it down. 

“ Of course, you posted my letter in time, Mr. Row- 
ley,” said Gertrude. 

“ Oh, of course, the mail don’t go out until to-morrow 
morning, you know. Yes, I posted your letter, and 
when the big postmaster — he is as big as a behemoth — 
found out that I was stopping at Reynolds’s cottage, he 
took down this letter which he said had been waiting to 
be called for, two or three days, and he asked me if I 
wouldn’t take it to Mrs. Reynolds. Here it is, ma’am,” 
said Sallust Rowley, handing over the letter to the 
fisher’s wife, who took it eagerly, exclaiming : 

“ It is from mother !” 

She opened and read it all through, and then dropped 
her hand upon her lap, murmuring : 


WHAT GERTRUDE MET. 


365 


“ Well, there !” 

“ I hope you have not heard ill news, Mrs. Reynolds ?” 
said Gertrude, sympathetically. 

“ Well, yes, child, rayther bad. To think my brother 
and his wife and child were on that unfortunate ship — 
the Messenger — I mean. And my poor brother’s wife 
was lost. ’Pears she and the baby was put in the life- 
boat with the women, and it was swamped and several 
of the women was drowned, and among them my poor 
brother’s wife. But what do you think ?” she asked, 
turning to Gertrude, who was giving the deepest atten- 
tion. “ What do you think but that the helpless baby 
was saved, and that by a young lady who was afterward 
drowned herself, poor angel, a young lady of the name 
of— Well, there, it looks like Fergusson,” remarked 
Mrs. Reynolds, lifting and scrutinizing her letter. “ It 
looks like Fergusson or Featherstone or some such 
name. But poor mother do write such a dreadful hand 
— she never had much schooling, poor mother hadn’t. 
You take it, my dear, and see if you can make it out.” 

Gertrude took the letter and held it with trembling 
fingers, while she examined it. Of course, she knew the 
name was her own, even before looking at it. But she 
answered with a quivering voice ; 

“ The name is Fitzgerald.’* 

“ The name ‘ Fitzgerald !’ Oh, my ! Let me see !” 
exclaimed the fisherman’s wife, taking the letter out of 
Gertrude’s hands, and looking at it again. “ Why, so it 
is ! Well, I declare ! And, if that name is Fitzgerald, 
why, t’ other must be, too !” 

“ What other ?” faintly inquired Gertrude. 

“ Why the colonel’s ! I couldn’t make it out. It 
looked like Fergusson, or something, but it must be 
Fitzgerald.” 

“ Colonel Fitzgerald ?” said Gertrude, tremulously. 


366 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Of course, Colonel Fitzgerald. And his wife it was 
who saved my poor brother’s child, and — But Lord bless 
us ! Why !” The good woman stopped short and gazed 
in comic consternation upon the face of Gertrude. 

“ What is the matter ?” inquired Gertrude, as calmly 
as she could speak. 

“ Why ! You told me yesterday that your husband 
was called Colonel Fitzgerald ! And you were both on 
the Messenger, And if you wasn’t lost, you was almost 
as good as drowned when you was picked up.” 

“ Well ?” inquired Gertrude, in a faltering voice. 

“Why! You never told me as you had saved my 
brother’s child.” 

“ I did not know it was your brother’s child.” 

“ It was — it was — it was you, then, who saved it ?” 
demanded the woman in great agitation for her, 

Gertrude nodded in assent. The tears welled up to 
her eyes. She could not speak. 

“ The Lord bless you, my dear ! The Lord bless you ! 
Oh, I am gladder and more thankful than ever to think 
that John rescued you ! What a hearing that will be 
for John when he comes in from the fishing ! Well, my 
child, you will like to hear the letter now, I reckon.” 

“ If you please,” murmured Gertrude. 

“ Then you may as well take it and read it yourself, 
my dear. There ’s no secrets in it, and may be you may 
be able to make it out better than I can,” said the good 
woman, as she placed the letter in Gertrude’s hands. 

The little lady opened it and read, with tearful eyes, 
how the motherless child she had rescued from drown- 
ing had been for her sake adopted by Colonel Fitzgerald, 
who had bound himself to defray all the expenses of 
bringing up and educating the boy and preparing him 
for some profession. All this was to be done in memory 
of her who had saved the boy. And the letter went on 


WHAT GERTRUDE MET. 


367 


to say how completely overwhelmed with sorrow the 
“ good gentleman seemed to be for the sad fate of his 
lovely young wife. 

Gertrude was obliged to stop reading to wipe away 
the tears that dimmed her sight. 

“ My dear Gerald !” she murmured to herself. “ Oh, 
my dear Gerald ! Yon do love me ! Yon do mourn 
me ! Traitress that I was to have doubted it for a 
moment ! You never meant to leave me to drown ! 
Oh, wretch that I was, to have dreamed it for an in- 
stant ? You love me and you mourn me, my husband ! 
My king ! Oh, that I had the wings of the wind to 
fly to you and console you ! But, to-morrow — yes, to- 
morrow you will get my letter and learn that your little 
Gertrude lives ! And to-morrow ! Oh, to-morrow, I 
myself will hasten to you !” she concluded, as she 
wiped the happy tears from her soft, brown eyes and 
resumed the reading of the letter. 

But the writer, here, had taken up another theme, 
and when Gertrude had read this last portion of the 
letter, she paused and looked up in astonishment, 
inquiring : 

Who is this Magdala Haddon of whom your mother 
speaks ?” 

“ Oh, I had forgotten about that ! I was so taken up 
with thinking about your saving my poor brother’s 
child that I forgot all about Magdala Haddon. And 
there now ! Well, I do declare for it !” exclaimed the 
woman, suddenly breaking off in her discourse and 
gazing with a new meaning into the face of Gertrude. 

“ What is the matter now ?” inquired the little lady, 
with a smile. 

“Why, I have been thinking ever since I first laid my 
eyes on your face, who it was that you reminded me of 
so much, and now I have it 1” 


368 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Indeed ! Do I remind you of any one you ever 
knew ?” 

‘‘ Yes, indeed, you do.” 

“ Who was it ?” 

Why, Magdala Haddon, to be sure. But, as I hadn’t 
seen her for seventeen years, I couldn’t just call to mind 
who it was you looked like. But as soon as you looked 
at me and mentioned her name, it all came upon me like 
a flash of lightning. In your features and your expres- 
sion, you are the living image of Magdala Haddon, 
though your complexion is certainly very different.” 

“ But who, then, was Magdala Haddon ?” persisted 
Gertrude, in whom the mere name or conjunction of 
names had roused a painful interest. “Was this the 
long-lost daughter of Gabriel Haddon and his hapless 
wife, Lilly Vale ?” she asked herself. 

“ Stay, what does it say about her in the letter ? I 
couldn’t just make it out exactly,” replied Mrs. Reyn- 
olds, with a perplexed air. 

Gertrude took up the letter and read the paragraph 
aloud : 

“ •' What brought Colonel Fitzgerald, poor gentleman, to my 
house was to make inquiries about Magdala Haddon. ’Pears, 
like, he knew exactly who she was, and her husband was in the 
right of it when he said she was heiress of a great fortune in the 
United States somewhere. But it is all too long a story to put 
down in this letter. I will tell you all about it when I see you.’ ’* 

“ Is that all as mother says about it ?” inquired Mrs. 
Reynolds. 

“That is all. But who is Magdala Haddon?” per- 
sisted Gertrude. 

“ She was my foster-sister, two years older than me. 
She was born in a hospital, and put out to nurse with 
my mother, who had just lost her own baby. And her 
friends as put her to nurse never come back after her, 


WHAT GERTRUD^ MET. 


369 


nor sent her any money, and so mother raised her as her 
own, and kept her until she grew up and married a 
young man of the name of Adam Lackland — ” 

“ ‘ Adam Lackland ?’ ” echoed Gertrude, in amaze- 
ment, as the name fell on her ears. 

“Yes, dear; Adam Lackland. Did you happen to 
know him ?” 

“ No, but I have heard of him. So she married Adam 
Lackland. And then ?” eagerly inquired Gertrude. 

“ Well, and then they stayed with us till her first child 
was born, and then they went off to America to seek 
after that fortune as he thought she was heiress to, and 
as it now ’pears she really was. It was in — yes, that 
was the place — Virginia County, Wilde State. Well, 
they left us to go there.” 

“ And then ?” 

“We never heard tell of ’em again but barely once. 
We got a letter from them, dated the day of their arrival 
in New York, the loth of July, i8 — , and then they were 
about to start for Virginia County, and said they ex- 
pected to arrive there about the 15th of that same July. 
And we have never heard from them since. I was about 
thirteen years old at that time, and seventeen years have 
passed since then, yet I remember it all as if it were 
yesterday.” 


370 


TH£ REJECTED BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Gertrude’s journey. 

** How swift the soul sails on, how slow the time !” 

Gertrude fell into deep and painful thought over what 
she had heard. She put together certain coincidences. 
There could be no doubt that Magdala H addon was the 
missing daughter of Gabriel Haddon. '^vXwho else was 
she ? Was she really that poor wandering maniac, Mag- 
dala, who, for seventeen years, had been the terror and 
pity of Wilde County ? Gertrude shuddered at the bare 
suspicion ; yet circumstances seemed to point to its 
truth. 

Adam Lackland had married Magdala Haddon and 
started with her for America. They had landed at New 
York on the loth of July, i8 — , and expected to reach 
Wildeville on the 15th. 

On the night of that fatal 15th of July, there had 
been a great flood of Wilde River, and much property 
and many lives had been lost. 

Among the persons rescued, however, there was a 
strange, wild-looking woman, who had never been seen 
in the county before, and who bore the unique name 
of Magdala. These circumstances were almost enough 
in themselves to prove the identity of the lost daughter 
of Gabriel Haddon and the wife of Adam Lackland 
with the wandering maniac Magdala. 

And in the same flood there was an unknown infant 
found — Gertrude’s self. 

And in later years, when Gerald Fitzgerald met Adam 
Lackland and won the confidence and friendship of that 
wild, eccentric man. Lackland had told Gerald that he 


Gertrude’s journey. 

had lost his wife and child in a great calamity, but for- 
bore to tell what the nature of that calamity was, and 
ever afterward avoided the painful subject altogether. 

There seemed now no room for doubt that the wan- 
dering maniac Magdala was the missing daughter of 
Gabriel H addon and the lost wife of Adam Lack- 
land. 

But besides these ^ who else was she ? 

Was she the mother of the unknown infant, found on 
the same morning after the great flood, when Gertrude 
herself was rescued ? 

In a word, was wild Magdala the mother of Gertrude ? 

Our little lady’s blood ran cold at the bare idea of 
such a relationship. 

And if these relationships existed, as she now be- 
lieved, between Adam Lackland, Magdala and herself, 
as father, mother and daughter, and if they all three 
had been saved from the great flood on the same morn- 
ing, as it appeared that they had been, how was it that 
they had got so widely separated as to induce the belief 
in each that the other had perished ? 

Magdala certainly denied her own child, if Gertrude 
was indeed her child. 

Adam Lackland asserted that he had lost his wife and 
babe in a terrible disaster. 

And Gertrude had always believed that her parents, 
whoever they might have been, had perished in the 
flood. 

How was it possible that such a fatal misunderstand- 
ing of the circumstances could have occurred ? 

Gertrude could not even conjecture ! 

But she remembered the strange, passionate interest 
the poor mad woman had taken in her fate, even to the 
extent of following and abducting her from her hus- 
band, and this remembrance seemed to strengthen the 


372 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


fearful suspicion that this wandering maniac was indeed 
her mother. 

She remembered, also, the words of her hostess in 
regard to her strong resemblance to Magdala Haddon. 
And this seemed to confirm the dark theory of her 
parentage. 

“You say that I remind you very much of your fos- 
ter-sister ?” said Gertrude, in a low voice. 

“ I may say that, in features and expression, you are 
the very print of Magdala Haddon,” answered Mrs. 
Reynolds. 

“ But that must have been in her youth,” said poor , 
Gertrude. 

“ Why, of course it was in her youth. I have never 
set eyes on her since she was about your age. And you 
are the very image of her, as she looked then, except in 
your complexion.” 

“ Magdala Haddon was very much darker than I am,” 
suggested Gertrude. 

“ Darker ? Why, no, my dear ! She was ever so much 
whiter than you are,” said Mrs. Reynolds. 

“/am talking of your foster-sister,” said Gertrude. 

“ So am I, dear,” answered her hostess. 

“ But she was very, very dark !” exclaimed Gertrude, 
in surprise and perplexity, as she recalled the image 
of the swarthy gipsy she had known as Magdala. “ She 
was very, very dark — the darkest woman, except a 
negro, I ever saw.” 

“ Lord love you, my dear ! Whatever put that in 
your head ? Why, Magdala Haddon was just contrary- 
wise to all that ! She was very, very fair — the fairest 
woman you ever saw in all your born days ! She was 
fairer than anything you ever saw, except an alabaster 
statue ! She was said to be the image of her dear 
mother. She was as white as a white japonica ; and 


Gertrude’s journey. 


373 


her eyes were blue as heaven, and her hair — her hair 
was like nothing in this world, unless it was like rays 
of light. Its color was between a silver and a gold — it 
was — it was. Well, there ! I give it up !” said the 
woman, with a sigh of discouragement. 

“Washer beautiful hair silver in the sunshine and 
golden in the shade ?” softly inquired Gertrude, as she 
recalled Gabriel H addon’s description of his lovely 
bride. 

“ Yes, that was it, exactly, that was just what it was 
like ! If you had studied a month, you could not have 
hit it better. ” 

Gertrude was greatly relieved. This radiant picture 
certainly did not suit the dark, swarthy, black-haired, 
black-eyed gipsy, whom she had dreaded and avoided 
under the name of Magdala. And thence the gipsy- 
woman could not possibly have been Magdala H addon, 
the daughter of Gabriel and Lily, the wife of Adam 
Lackland, the mother of Gertrude. These facts were 
also supported by the circumstances that mad Magdala 
had denied the rescued child to be hers, and that Adam 
Lackland had declared his wife and child to have per- 
ished in a terrible disaster — no doubt the fatal flood of 
the Wilde, on the night and morning of that 15 th of 
July. 

Gertrude was now deeply puzzled, for now it seemed 
not only that there had been two women bearing the 
same unique name of. Magdala, but both were of about 
the same age ; both had suddenly appeared at Wildeville 
on the same night, and both had been overwhelmed by 
the same flood ; one, the wife of Adam Lackland, had 
been irrecoverably lost ; but the other had been rescued, 
only to become a hopeless maniac, a houseless wanderer 
over the face of the earth. 

Adam Lackland had been right, then, in concluding 


374 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


that he had lost his wife ; but had he been equally right 
in thinking that he had lost his child. Or was the un- 
known babe that had been rescued from the flood his 
child ? In a word, was Gertrude herself the child of 
Adam Lackland and his wife Magdala and conse- 
quently the grandchild of Gabriel H addon and his 
lovely Lily ? 

Our little lady could not tell. She was “ perplexed 
in the extreme.” 

She wondered how much more of the matter Colonel 
Fitzgerald and Doctor Goodwin knew, or if they knew 
any more than she did. 

There was one strange, characteristic feature in her 
reflections. She thought of herself as the daughter 
but never once as the representative and heiress of 
Magdala Haddon and her wealthy, landed ancestors. 

She was only more anxious, if possible, to meet 
Colonel Fitzgerald, to relieve him of his distress on her 
account, and to hear from him all he could tell her of 
this strange family mystery, which seemed now coming 
to light. 

In the midst of her meditations, Sallust Rowley, who 
had left the house, immediately after delivering the 
letters to Mrs. Reynolds, now returned, accompanied 
by an aged couple, who followed him into the room, 
and whom he named on their entrance as the Rev. Mr. 
and Mrs. Proctor. 

“Our dear vicar and his wife !” whispered Mrs. Reyn- 
olds, as she threw down her nets and arose and received 
them with the utmost deference. 

She then introduced them to Gertrude, placed chairs 
and begged them to be seated. 

The aged pair sat down, and Mrs. Reynolds and Ger- 
trude resumed their own seats. 

Sallust Rowley perched himself on the window-sill 


Gertrude’s journey. 


375 


and held his broad- brimmed straw hat in his hands be- 
tween his knees. 

Old Parson Proctor,” as he was called in the neigh- 
borhood, was a tall, handsome, white-haired patriarch of 
seventy years. His wife was a gentle-looking old lady, 
fair, plump, blue- eyed, silver-haired and about sixty- 
five. Both were dressed in black, but not in mourning. 
His suit was of clerical cloth, hers was of black silk. 

Mr. Proctor began by saying that he had heard of the 
great calamity by which his young friends had nearly 
lost their lives, and that he had come, and his wife also, 
to learn whether they could be of any use, and to offer 
their services. 

“Our time, our purse and our labor are heartily at your 
command, my dear young friends,” said the good old 
parson. 

“ And the vicarage is sincerely at your disposal, my 
dear young lady, if you and your relative will do us the 
honor to take up your abode there until you can com- 
municate with your friends,” added the mild old lady, 
addressing herself to Gertrude. 

“ I thank you very earnestly, madam, and you also, 
sir, for your kindness ; but we are very anxious to re- 
join our friends in London, and must hasten thither as 
soon as possible,” said Gertrude, answering for both. 

“ You see, sir, we must get to Dover first. Once in 
Dover, we are all right. I know our consul there, and 
he would cash my draft on my London bankers, and 
that would enable us to procure suitable travelling- 
dresses and go on to London at once,” put in Sallust. 

“ Your only difficulty, then, is to get to Dover, and 
that is so few miles off ?” said the vicar. 

“ Yes, sir ; and, as for me, I could easily walk the dis- 
tance, but this lady cannot do so. However, I have 
made up my mind. If I cannot find some conveyance 


376 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 


for Mrs. Fitzgerald this afternoon, I shall get up early 
in the morning, walk to Dover, see our consul, make the 
necessary arrangements with him, and hire a carriage 
and return to fetch this lady in time to take the even- 
ing train to London,” answered Sallust. 

“ My dear sir, you need not do that. My pony car- 
riage is heartily at your disposal. It has four seats. 
My servant can drive you over, either this afternoon or 
to-morrow morning, at your pleasure,” said the vicar, 
cordially. 

“ And my granddaughter will be happy to lend you 
anything you may require for your drive, my dear Mrs. 
Fitzgerald ; for I can well understand that you saved 
nothing from the wreck but the clothes on your person ; 
and so I hope you will give us the rare pleasure of pro- 
viding for your wants,” affectionately added the vicar’s 
gentle wife. 

“ Oh, indeed, you overwhelm me with your goodness, 
my dear Mrs. Proctor. I feel so deeply grateful to Mr. 
Proctor and yourself. And I am too heartily glad to 
seize your generous offer, ever to think of declining it,” 
said Gertrude, earnestly. 

“ So we accept it, vicar, with a thousand thanks,” 
added Sallust Rowley. 

“ That is right. Now, when shall I send you to 
Dover,” inquired the good old man. 

“ When, Mrs. Fitzgerald ?” inquired Sallust, referring 
the question to Gertrude. 

“ Oh, now !” answered our little lady, eagerly. “ This 
very afternoon, if it is equally convenient to Mr. and 
Mrs. Proctor. Oh, dear madam,” she continued, turn- 
ing to the old lady, ‘‘ my husband has every reason to 
believe me drowned ; my name was published in the 
list of the lost ; I wrote to him this afternoon, and my 
letter will go off by the first mail to-morrow ; I wish to 


Gertrude’s journey. 


377 


follow it to relieve the distress and anxiety of my hus- 
band,” she concluded, as if to explain and apologize for 
her impatience. 

“Very natural, I am sure, my dear, and you shall 
have the pony-chaise at once. What articles of wearing 
apparel shall I send with it, my dear?” inquired the 
vicar’s wife. 

“Any plain hat and vail, a pair of gloves and any 
sort of shawl or mantle. I shall be deeply obliged, Mrs. 
Proctor, and will send them back by your servant.” 

“As you please, my dear young lady. Now I will 
shorten my call, that I may the sooner send you what 
you require,” said the old lady, as she arose. 

“ And you, sir ? What shall I send you ? That vast 
circumference of hat will scarcely do for a gentleman 
to drive to Dover, especially when he is escorting a 
lady,” said the vicar, cordially. 

“ Why, no,” said Sallust, laughing, “ not exactly. It 
would do better for a tent, if we were camping out. So 
I shall add to the obligations I owe you, reverend sir, 
by asking you to send me a hat and a pair of gloves — 
nothing more, absolutely nothing more.” 

“ Very well, my young friend. And now, good-bye, 
and may heaven bless you both.” 

And so the aged couple took leave of the young peo- 
ple and their hostess and left the fisherman’s cottage. 

“You are very anxious to run away from me, Mrs. 
Fitzgerald,” said the fisherman’s wife, speaking in a 
half-reproachful tone. 

“ Oh, but it is to relieve my husband, Mrs. Reynolds. 
Think what he now endures ! Think what you would 
feel if you thought some one you dearly loved had per- 
ished from that ship ! I will never forget your good- 
ness to us, though ; and when I have seen Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, I will ask him to come down here with me, that 


878 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


he may see and thank you,” answered Gertrude, ten- 
derly. 

“ Oh, you are right, my dear young lady, altogether 
right ; and I am not finding fault with you. Lord bless 
you.” good-naturedly answered the woman. 

In less than half an hour after this conversation came 
the pony-chaise, driven by the vicar’s man. 

Sallust Rowley and Gertrude Fitzgerald had no pack- 
ing up to do, no change of dress to make. 

Gertrude had only to put the little black-velvet hat 
on her head, wrap the black-and-white-checked shawl 
around her shoulders and draw on her gray gloves, 
throw the gray vail over her face, and she was ready. 

Sallust had only to exchange his vast straw hat for a 
medium-sized felt one and cover his hands with a pair 
of doe-skin gloves and he was ready. 

They took leave of their kind hostess, left messages 
of affection and respect for their absent host, repeated 
their promises to revisit St. Margaret’s Bay and then 
entered the pony-chaise and started for Dover. 

The drive over the Downs, between St. Margaret’s 
and Dover, was so pleasantly varied with hill, vale, field 
and farm, that is seemed short even to the eager spirit 
of Gertrude. 

On arriving at the city they drove first to a lady’s out- 
fitter where Gertrude ordered what she needed for her 
journey, to be sent to her address at the Lord Warden’s 
Hotel, where it was to be paid for on delivery. They 
then called at a gentleman’s furnisher, where Sallust 
ordered what was necessary for himself, to be sent to 
the same hotel, on the same conditions. 

They next drove to the Lord Warden’s, where Sallust 
engaged apartments for Mrs. Fitzgerald, and where he 
left her, while he drove to the consul’s office to draw a 
check on his London bankers and get it cashed. 


Gertrude’s journey. 


379 


Being well acquainted with the American consul, he 
found no difficulty whatever in getting money on his 
own check, and having obtained it, he drove back to the 
Lord Warden’s and paid for the articles ordered by Ger- 
trude and himself, which were awaiting him there in 
charge of the clerks, who held the receipted bills. 

He then had all the articles of clothing that had been 
borrowed from the vicar’s family carefully packed up 
in the boxes from which he had removed the newly 
purchased goods, and put in the chaise to be returned, 
with earnest thanks, to the owners. 

Finally, he rewarded the vicar’s man with a liberal 
present in money, and sent him home. 

After a light tea, in the ordinary, he told Gertrude 
that a train would leave Dover for London at twelve, 
midnight, and another at six, morning, and gave her 
her choice between them. 

“ Oh, let us go by the midnight train, if that is the 
first, Mr. Rowley, for I am so eager to set Colonel Fitz- 
gerald’s mind at rest,” earnestly replied Gertrude. 

“ All right,” said Sallust, and he sallied forth to pro- 
cure tickets. 

He returned with them very soon, and asked Gertrude 
how she would like to spend the intervening time — 
whether she would like a walk, a drive, or go to some 
lecture-room or place of worship. 

But our little lady thanked him and declined all these ; 
urging him, however, to go out and amuse himself. 
Sallust, in his turn, refused point-blank to go and leave 
her. And so they spent the long hours in the public 
room of the hotel, sometimes conversing, sometimes 
looking over the paper and sometimes meditating or 
dozing, until a quarter to twelve. When they left the 
hotel, walked to the station, and took their seats in a 
carriage where every other seat was filled, 


380 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


As soon as the train started they sank into the sleep 
of great fatigue, and slept until it ran into the London 
Bridge Station. 

The stopping of the train awoke them both. 

It was still dark night, but the station was well 
lighted with gas. 

“ It is very late ; or, rather, I mean to say it is ex- 
tremely early. Had I not better take you to a hotel to 
wait until morning ? Everybody will be fast asleep at 
the colonel’s lodgings in Hollis Street, and it would 
seem to be a pity to arouse them by such an astounding 
surprise as your arrival under the present circumstances 
would be. I think we had better go to a hotel,” said 
Sallust, speaking between the deep yawns with which 
he recalled himself to consciousness. “ Say, oughtn’t 
we to go to a hotel and wait until daylight, at least ?” 

On no account, Mr. Rowley. We must go directly 
to Colonel Fitzgerald’s lodgings.” 

“ But please to remember he has not yet got your 
letter. You are in advance of the mail. He still be- 
lieves you to have been lost at sea. Your sudden ap- 
pearance at this hour will be like the apparition of a 
ghost. You will give him a most tremendous shock.” 

“ I think he can stand it,” said Gertrude, with a smile. 

She was so delighted to be so near her husband, and 
so impatient to be at his side. 

“ So you are determined to go to Fitzgerald’s lodg- 
ings at once ?” 

“‘At once,’ ” echoed Gertrude, with pretty willfulness. 

“ Well,” said Sallust, as he signaled a cab : 

‘ If a woman will, she will, you may depend on ’t ; 

And if she won’t, she won’t, and there ’s an end on’t.* 

“ Cab, here, are you engaged ?” 

“ No, sir.” 


GERTRUDE AT HOLLIS STREET. 


381 


“ Drive up, then. I want you to take this lady and 
myself to Hollis Street.” 

“ Yes, sir. Any luggage, sir ?” inquired the cabman, 
driving up, jumping from his seat and opening the door. 

“ No, and that ’s a blessing. How free a fellow feels 
when he hasn’t any property. Get in, Mrs. Fitzgerald 
— Hollis Street, Regent Square, No. 8. Do you hear?” 
said Sallust, as he followed Gertrude into the cab, and 
took his seat opposite hers. 

“ All right, sir,” said the driver, touching up his horse. 

But to “ touch up ” the horse, and to make him go 
fast, were two very different affairs. The wearied cab- 
horse went slowly — oh, how slowly — it seemed to the 
eager, loving heart of the little lady. 

She could not talk to Sallust, who good-naturedly 
tried to engage her in conversation. She could only 
answer him at random in an absent-minded manner, 
until he gave over his attempt to interest her. 

She was absorbed in imaging to herself the coming 
meeting with her husband. She lived over and over 
again, in advance, his shock of joy, his amazement, his 
delight. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

GERTRUDE AT HOLLIS STREET. 

Oh, unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! — Milton. 

With expectation wrought up to the highest pitch 
of excitement, Gertrude approached her husband’s 
lodgings. 

The cab turned into Regent Square, and her breath 
came fitfully. It turned into Hollis Street and her 
heart almost ceased to beat. It drew' up before No. 8, 


382 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


and animation seemed suspended. It was now the 
earliest dawn of day, and the neighborhood was utterly 
deserted, except by the lamp-tenders, who were going 
their rounds turning off the gas. 

The cabman sprang down from his seat and ran up 
the steps to the door of a gloomy, respectable three- 
story brick house, whose shutters were all still closed. 

Gertrude waited breathlessly. 

No response came from the darkened house. 

The cabman rang a louder peal and waited longer. 

But all within remained as silent and still as though 
the place was untenanted. 

Gertrude felt upon the point of swooning. 

‘‘Knock!” exclaimed Sallust Rowley. “You know 
rings only go down in the lower regions of the house, 
and at this hour all the household must be abed in the 
upper regions, where they can’t hear it. Knock ! Knock 
loudly I” 

The cabman seized the iron knocker and sounded an 
alarm that might have awakened the Seven Sleepers. 
It awoke one sleeper at least. 

An upper' window was heard to be thrown up, the 
shutters were thrown open and a night-capped head was 
thrust out. 

“What in the deuce is the matter?” angrily demanded 
this apparition. 

“ Does Colonel Fitzgerald lodge here ?” inquired 
Sallust Rowley, who had meanwhile followed the cab- 
man to the door. 

“ Who .^” demanded the man at the window. 

“ Colonel Fitzgerald,” answered Sallust. 

“ No, he don’t ! Who the deuce wants him at this 
hour of the night ?” 

“ He don’t lodge here ?” said Sallust, in dismay. 

“No, I tell you I Who wants him r 


GERTRUDE AT HOLLIS STREET. 


383 


Does the Rev. Dr. Goodwin lodge here ?” 

“ No ; the Rev. Dr. Goodwin doesn’t ! Who the 
demon wants hhn ? And what the deuce do you mean 
anyhow^ coming here at this hour of the night disturb- 
ing decent people ?” 

“ Are you the proprietor of the house ?” inquired 
Sallust, good-humoredly ignoring the man’s rudeness. 

My widowed daughter is, and it ’s all the same. But 
who the deuce are you ?’' 

Sallust paused a moment. 

He did not wish to create a sensation by announcing 
himself and Gertrude as two of the passengers of the 
burnt steamship Messenger^ who were supposed to have 
been drowned ; whose names had even been published 
in the list of the lost ; but who had now returned at 
dead of night to call folks forth from sleep. So he 
answered : 

“We are near friends and relatives of Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, and we understood that he lodged here.” 

“ Oh, well, he did lodge here, but he left early this 
morning, in the company of the Rev. Dr. Goodwin,” 
answered the man, in a somewhat civiler tone. 

“ Can you tell me where he went ?” inquired Sallust. 

“Well, no, not exactly. Wait till I come down and 
open the door, sir ; it is awkward talking out of the 
window,” said the man, drawing in his head and disap- 
pearing. 

Sallust went back to the cab to see to Gertrude. He 
found her in the collapse of disappointment ; not 
swooning, yet scarcely breathing. 

“ Oh, Mr. Rowley, what a blow ! Where can he 
have gone ?” she gasped, in a scarcely audible voice, as 
she gave Sallust her chilled hand, that he might help 
her from the cab. 

“ Come, come, my dear lady, brace up. You are such 


384 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


a brick, you know ! ‘ Where can he have gone ?’ Why, 
to the opposite side of the street, or around the corner, 
or to some other lodgings, not far off.” 

“ Do you really think so, Mr. Rowley,” she sighed. 

“ Why, of course I do. He has changed his lodgings ; 
that is all. Come, let me help you to alight and take 
you into the house where we can obtain further infor- 
mation. There is the man, now, at the door,” said Sal- 
lust, kindly, as he lifted her from the cab and led her 
up the steps to the door, where they met the landlord, 
in a common dressing-gown and with a candle in his 
hand. He was an old man, somewhat troubled with the 
infirmities and irascibilities of age. 

“ Come into the parlor, sir, while I shut the door and 
light the gas. Come in, ma’am,” he said, leading the 
way into a good-sized, well-furnished room on the 
right. 

Sallust put Gertrude into an easy-chair, where she 
sank back, speechless, and almost breathless and pulse- 
less with disappointment and depression. 

“Well, now, sir,” began the old man, after he had 
lighted the gas and put out the candle and seated him- 
self in the arm-chair, “ now, about my lodgers. What 
is it you want to know ?” 

“ Colonel Fitzgerald is a cousin of ours.” (“He must be 
a cousin of yours, also, Mrs. Gertrude, because all Wilde 
County are kin to each other,” he said, par parenthesis.) 
“ Colonel Fitzgerald is a cousin of ours, and Doctor 
Goodwin was our pastor, and we all came from the 
same place in America. We came here, expecting to 
see him ; and as he has left here, we would like to know 
where he has gone that we may follow him,” concluded 
Sallust. 

“Well, sir, the two gentlemen left here yesterday 
morning quite suddenly. You see the colonel has not 


GERTRUDE AT HOLLIS STREET. 


385 


been himself since the dreadful burning of the steaon- 
ship Messenger^ in the Straits of Dover, you know, sir, 
which happened on the night of the ist, and in which 
his young wife perished. Of course, you have read all 
about that, sir.” 

“ Yes,” said Sallust. 

“Well, the colonel has not been himself since the 
fatal occurrence. The doctor thought he must have a 
rouse and a change, or it would be the worse for him. 
So the doctor persuaded him to go for a tour somewhere 
and took him off yesterday morning.” 

“ Oh, ’Gerald !” murmured Gertrude to herself. “ Oh, 
Gerald ! And I had so looked forward to this hour to 
relieve you of all distress about myself.” 

“ Well, can you tell us where they are gone ?” inquired 
Sallust. 

“ I could not if it was to save my life-, sir.” 

“ Could your daughter, the landlady, tell us ?” 

“ No, sir, she couldn’t, because we were talking it 
all over at supper last night and not a soul of us had 
the least idea where they went. They drove from here 
to the Euston Square Railway Station, and that is all I 
could find out.” 

“ Well, I suppose you know how long they will be 
gone, and when they will be coming back ?” 

“ Indeed, then, I don’t, sir ; only I know they are not 
coming back here at all ; for they told me that much, 
bidding me put up the cards of apartments to let in their 
rooms if I chose. And they took away all their effects, 
sir, even to their black man and their little dog — the 
little dog that was saved from the wreck, sir — and odd 
enough it was that his lady should have been lost and 
her little dumb beast of a dog should have been saved ; 
but I hear as a sailor saw the little brute as it was 
a-swimming round one of the life-boats, and, seeing as it 


386 


THE REJECTED RRIDE. 


wasn’t big enough to make a crowd nor likewise heavy 
enough to swamp the boat, he took' pity on the poor 
thing and picked it up and saved it. And, sir, why the 
colonel makes as much of that little brute for his lady’s 
sake as if it was a child.” 

“ Oh, Gerald, and to think you must suffer distress 
still longer !” sighed Gertrude, to herself. 

“ Well,” exclaimed Sallust, with a very perturbed air, 
“ I never was so completely stumped in the whole course 
of my life ! I know no more than the dead what step to 
take next. If I was to go to Euston Square Railway 
Station and inquire for what place two gentlemen an- 
swering to the description of Colonel Fitzgerald and 
Doctor Goodwin had taken tickets, I should simply be 
laughed at for a fool. In the hundreds of gentlemen 
that take tickets there every day for every station on the 
various routes, my two gentlemen would never have 
been remembered ; unless, indeed, one had had a hump- 
back and the other a wooden leg or a wall eye, to dis- 
tinguish him from his fellow-beings, as I wish to good- 
ness each had ; for to go looking up Colonel Fitzgerald 
and Doctor Goodwin in such a labyrinth of roads as this 
old island would be more' hopeless than hunting a 
needle in a hay-rick.” 

“ You might advertise for them in the personal column 
of the Times ^ you know, sir. ‘ If the two gents as left 
their home in Hollis Street on the morning of Friday 
will return to their sorrowing friends, all will be for- 
given,’ or ‘ they will hear something to their advantage,' 
or the like o’ that. Now, sir, that might fetch ’em,” 
suggested the landlord. 

“ I hardly think the case calls for such a desperate 
remedy,” replied Sallust, with a smile. We had better 
wait patiently, had we not, Mrs. Fitzgerald?” he in- 
quired, turning to his companion. 


GERTRUDE AT HOLLIS STREET. 


387 


While the two men had been speaking, Gertrude had 
been reflecting. She remembered the letter received 
by Mrs. Reynolds from that good woman’s mother, in 
which the latter ^had spoken of Doctor Goodwin’s and 
Colonel Fitzgerald’s visit to her market-garden, and so 
she answered Sallust, saying : 

“ I think, Mr. Rowley, that we may hear of these gen- 
tlemen’s movements at a market-farm at Upper Nor- 
wood, where Doctor Goodwin was in the habit of fre- 
quently visiting. It is not far to seek.” 

“ Upper Norwood ?” said Sallust, reflectively. “ Oh, 
yes ! I know the place. I went there when last in 
England. It is about twenty minutes’ railway ride from 
London Bridge vStation. And Doctor Goodwin has 
friends there, you say ? What is the name of the peo- 
ple ?” inquired Sallust, with interest. 

“ Robins. And they are market-gardeners and the 
parents of Mrs. Reynolds. You brought Mrs. Reynolds 
a letter from the post-office, in which letter she spoke of 
Doctor Goodwin’s visit to her place in Upper Norwood, 
and Colonel Fitzgerald’s accompanying the doctor, on 
one occasion.” 

“ Oh, aye, yes ! Is that so ? But how curiously things 
do turn out. Well, then — ah, it is likely these market- 
gardeners may be able to tell us something about the 
movements of these gentlemen. Now, 'in that case — 
ahem — Mr. — Mr. — ” said Sallust, abruptly turning to 
the master of the house. 

“Carter, sir, at your service,” put in the latter. 

“ Ah, thanks ! Mr. Carter, would you kindly procure 
me a glass of water 

The old man silently and not very graciously left 
the room to comply with his visitor’s request. 

Sallust then turned to Gertrude and said : 

“ I sent that man out of the room, that I might ask 


388 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


you a question. Do you not think that I ought to tell 
Carter exactly who you are, and that then you had 
better take the rooms just vacated by Colonel Fitzgerald 
and occupy them until you hear from him, while I go 
to a hotel and remain there within reach, in case I 
should be wanted ?” 

“ No, Mr. Rowley ; I am sorry to differ with you, but 
that plan will not do. If I should tell these people 
that I am the wife whom Colonel Fitzgerald has been 
mourning as drowned, it would make a sensation and a 
scene. It would get abroad and be talked of. News- 
paper reporters would come to see me, and whether I 
should talk with them or not, the whole affair would 
get into the papers. Colonel Fitzgerald, wherever he 
is, would see it or hear it ; but he would not quite 
believe it, and he would be agonized by doubt and 
suspense, that would be a thousand-fold more terrible 
than his present fancied certainty. No, Mr. Rowley, I 
must be the first to announce my resurrection to Colonel 
Fitzgerald. After that, let all the rest follow. Nay, all 
the rest must follow ; for, Mr. Rowley, your noble and 
heroic act of saving my life at the imminent risk of 
your own, must not be suffered to die in oblivion.” 

“Oh, bother all that!” said Sallust, impatiently. 
“ Well, what do you wish to do ? You must have some 
place to put your head in, you know.” 

“ I shall decide on nothing until I see the people at 
Norwood. They may be able to tell me where to find 
Colonel Fitzgerald. If they should, of course I shall 
go to him at once.” 

“ But if they should not be able to tell you, what 
would you do in that case ?” 

“ I do not know. I may be able better to decide that 
question when the time for action upon it comes, if it 
ever comes. Here is Mr. Carter with a pitcher of 


GERTRUDE AT HOLLIS STREET. 


389 


water and glasses. We shall have to drink some, 
whether we want it or not,” added Gertrude, as the 
master of the house entered and set down the tray 
with the water carafe and goblets on the table, saying, 
with an injured air : . 

“ I had to keep you waiting for a few minutes, sir. 
The servant hasn’t risen. There was no water in the 
kitchen, and I had to get it from the hydrant in the 
yard.” 

“ Sorry to have given you so much trouble, sir. Did 
I understand you to say that Doctor Goodwin’s late 
rooms in your house were now vacant ?” 

“You did, sir.” 

“ Then, if you please, I would like to engage them 
on the same terms on which Doctor Goodwin had 
them.” 

The old man’s ill humor vanished in an instant. 

Sallust smiled to see it. 

“ For how long would you want them, sir ?” 

“Oh, for a couple of weeks, perhaps.” 

The old man’s ill humor returned in an instant, with 
compound interest. 

“ Then you can’t have them, sir. This is the begin- 
ning of the season, and I should lose the letting of my 
apartments for the whole season, or my daughter would, 
which is all the same,” he said. 

Sallust bowed. His good-natured little stratagem, 
by which he meant to conciliate the old bear, and, per- 
haps, also secure some temporary accommodation for 
Gertrude and a warm breakfast before they went to 
Norwood, failed then and there. 

Gertrude was the first to move. She had rallied 
from the shock of disappointment, that, having come 
when her nervous system had been wrought up to the 
highest pitch of excitement and expectancy, had, for a 


390 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


time, utterly prostrated her. She was still pale, and 
her voice was still tremulous. But she felt the need -of 
immediate action, and so she arose and said : 

“I think, Mr. Rowley, we will go on to Norwood 
immediately. There is no train at this hour, I presume, 
but we can get a cab with a fresh horse and drive there. 
It will take us, I presume, about two hours and we had 
better spend the time in going there than in any other 
way.” 

“ But to go at this time of the morning without your 
breakfast ?” said Sallust, in dismay. 

“ You know that we cannot get breakfast at this time 
in the morning,” answered Gertrude. 

“ That is so. For I remember when I first came to 
London and stopped at the Morley House, it was four 
o’clock A. M., when I got there, and I had to wait three 
mortal hours because that great man, the head waiter, 
did not rise until seven, and no one dared either to dis- 
turb the slumbers of his worship or to act in his depart- 
ment without his orders. So come along, madam ; we 
will take leave of this humane and hospitable patriarch 
and proceed to Norwood,” said Sallust, as he arose, took 
his hat, bowed to the old man and attended Gertrude to 
the door. 

“ Can you put a fresh horse in your cab and take us 
to Upper Norwood this morning,” inquired Sallust, 
when he had reached the sidewalk. 

“ When we get to Lunnon Bridge I can. Our stable 
be n’t far from that,” replied the man, as he opened the 
cab-door for his party. 

“ Go on, then ; change this tired beast for a fresh 
horse when you get to London Bridge, and then drive to 
Upper Norwood,” said Sallust, as he handed Gertrude 
into the cab and followed her, and seated himself at her 
side. 


GERTRUDE IN MAGDALA’s HOME. 


391 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

GERTRUDE IN MAGDALA’s HOME. 

Why does she come ? , 

She is like the other, 

But is not the other! 

Why does she come ? -W. C. 

The street-lamps had all been put out, so it was pre- 
sumable that daylight had dawned ; but little could be 
seen of it at this early hour, in the dense London fog. 

Before they reached London Bridge, however, the 
fog in the far eastern part of the city/ assumed a dark, 
murky hue, like a reddening smoke, by which she 
knew that the sun was rising and that it was going to 
be a clear day — that rare blessing for England. 

The cabman did not detain them long at the stables, 
where he changed horses and refreshed himself with a 
draught of ale and a “ hunk ” of bread and cheese. 

They then drove rapidly to Upper Norwood, and, 
after some little delay and difficulty, found their way to 
The Cherries, as the Robinses’ place was called. 

Even in the midst of her impatient anxiety to hear 
news of her husband Gertrude found time to admire 
the quaint old farm-house, so overgrown with ivy and 
so shaded with hardy vines as to look green and fresh 
even on this February morning. 

Early as it was, the house was all open, and the 
household was astir. 

Sallust and Gertrude alighted at the gate -and went 
up a gravel walk between two rows of raspberry bushes 
to the deeply shaded porch. 

The front and back doors stood wide open, giving a 


m 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


vista of the passage running through the middle of the 
house to the back-yard, in which stood a young girl in 
a pink-calico dress and a white sun-bonnet, holding a 
basket of corn in her hands and scattering it among 
a clamorous flock of hens and chickens, that were flying 
and cackling around her. 

Sallust knocked loudly with the iron knocker of the 
open door. 

At the sound, the girl in the back-yard turned her 
head, as if to see who was there ; but then went quietly 
on, feeding her chickens. 

But the door of a back room on the right-hand side of 
the passage opened, and a woman appeared — a fine, 
healthy, cheerful-looking dame, in a clean blue-calico 
dress and white apron — in a word, Jane Robins, who 
came briskly on with cheerful indifference to meet her 
unknown and unexpected visitors. She nodded to both 
with rustic politeness, and then looked at Gertrude. 

“We have called, if you please, ma'am — ” began 
Sallust. 

Jane Robins did not hear one word he said. She was 
gazing breathlessly at Gertrude. 

“We took the liberty of calling, I say, ma’am — ” 

The woman did not hear ; she continued staring stu- 
pidly at Gertrude. 

“ To inquire if you knew — ” 

His words fell on deafened ears ; for Mrs. Robins re- 
mained transfixed before Gertrude. 

“ If you please, ma’am,” he said, now taking hold of 
her sleeve and giving it a gentle twitch. 

But without even looking at him, she brushed him off 
as carelessly as if he had been a blue-bottle-fly, and 
seizing both the hands of Gertrude, turned her around, 
and exclaimed : 

“ Magdala Haddon ! My child ! Good heaven ! Do 


GERTRUDE IN MAGDALA’s HOME. 


393 


I dream ? Or do I really see you again after so many 
years ? And so unchanged by time !” 

“ I am not Magdala Haddon,” said Gertrude, very 
gently and compassionately. “ I am not Magdala Had- 
don. See !” And she took off her hat, turned to the 
full light, revealing her soft brown eyes and braided 
brown hair. 

“ Oky no !” moaned the woman. “ I see now ! How 
could I have supposed it possible Magdala could have 
looked like you after so many years ! But who are you, 
then, young lady ? You are the living image of a child 
I lost some seventeen years ago, except in your dark 
eyes and dark hair. But I beg your pardon, miss ; I 
feel I am taking a liberty ; though, if you knew all, you 
would excuse me,” said the poor woman, as she sank 
down on a bench and put her apron to her eyes. 

“ You have taken no liberty. I have done so, rather, 
in having disturbed you. I am a friend of Doctor Good- 
win’s, and we have come to inquire if you know any- 
thing about his movements,” said Gertrude, true to her 
determination not to reveal herself to any one before 
seeing Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Come into the parlor, my dear young lady. Oh, you 
have given me such a shock ! You are so like her, ex- 
cept in your hair and eyes ! I almost feel as if I had 
died and come to life again ! So many strange things 
have happened to me. To hear Magdala Haddon in- 
quired about by strangers, after seventeen years have 
fled and gone since her disappearance. As you are a 
friend of Doctor Goodwin, young lady, of course you 
know what brought him to this country, and how he 
came to look up this same Magdala Haddon, who, it 
seems, is a very great person in Virginia,” said Jane 
Robins, as she led the way into the front parlor, where 
a bright little sea-coal fire was burning in the grate. 


394 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Yes, I know about the long search for Gabriel Had- 
don’s lost daughter. I know all about it ; but I wish 
now to know the present address of Doctor Goodwin,” 
said Gertrude, as she sank into the seat offered her by 
the landlady. 

“ Well, my dear, it is No. 8 Hollis Street.” 

“ It was^ but it is not now. He has left London, and 
his late landlady does not know whither he has gone. 
Oh, can you not give me some idea ?” 

“ Stay ! Yes ! I have a direction he left with me, in 
case I should wish to write to him. I will show it to 
you,” said Mrs. Robins, going to an old-fashioned, com- 
bined book-case and writing-desk that stood in one of 
the recesses between the fireplace and the front win- 
dows and, taking from one of its small drawers a card, 
which she showed to her visitor. 

Gertrude eagerly seized and read it, and then, with a 
sigh of disappointment, handed it to Sallust, who read 
out : 


Rev. Joseph Goodwin^ 

Wildeville, 

Wilde County, Virginia, 

U. 8. A. 


“This will not do us the least good in the world, 
ma’am. We want to know where he is now,” said 
Sallust. 

“ And that, I am sorry to say, I cannot tell you. But 
I can tell you where he will be on the ist of next 
month.” 

“ Oh ! Where ? Where ?” exclaimed Gertrude. 

“At Liverpool. Because the doctor told me that he 


GERTRUDE IN MAGDALa’s HOME. 


395 


and his friend, the colonel, had engaged passage on the 
Asm^ which is to sail from Liverpool on that day.” 

“ Mr. Rowley,” said Gertrude, eagerly, “ I know now 
what I must do. We must go back to London immedi- 
ately to the office of the Cunard Steamship Company, 
where I must engage a passage for myself to New 
York in the very same steamer. Then I must go down 
to Liverpool to await there the arrival of Colonel Fitz- 
gerald. He must be there a day or two before the 
sailing of the steamer, and I shall meet him in Liver- 
pool, or, at the latest, I shall meet him on the deck of 
the Asia. 

“ There ! You ’re right ! I always knew you were a 
brick ! That ’s what we must do. But, good gracious, 
my dear lady, we must not try to get back to Londoh 
until we have had some breakfast !” added Sallust, reck- 
lessly. Then, turning to the market-gardener’s wife, 
he added : 

“ Perhaps, ma’am, you could direct me to some quiet, 
respectable little country inn, where we could get 
breakfast ?” 

“ Why, dear me ! Haven’t you had breakfast yet ? 
And, I declare, the little lady looks quite pale ! Why 
didn’t you tell me, young gentleman ? Of course you 
will have breakfast here. ’Tisn’t likely that I would 
send a friend of dear Doctor Goodwin away from my 
house, to an inn, to get breakfast !” exclaimed Jane 
Robins, bursting out of the room and beginning to call 
girl and boy and set them to work to prepare a meal 
for her visitors. 

“ You see, madam,” said Sallust, when Mrs. Robins 
returned to the parlor, “ we arrived in London before 
daylight this morning, and right from the train went in 
search of Doctor Goodwin’s lodgings ; and finding that 
he had left them without leaving his new address, we 


396 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


came directly out here to see if you could give us any 
information. This impatient little lady would not stop 
for breakfast, until she had made her inquiries here.” 

Just off the train, miss ! Then I am sure you must 
feel the need of all manner of refreshment. Please 
come into my spare room, miss, and you can take off 
your hat and sack and bathe your face, while they are 
getting breakfast ready ; and, sir, I will send Mark 
Martin to show you where you can take a wash.” 

I thank you, ma’am,” said Sallust. “ I should like 
to get some of this railroad dust out of my eyes, if it 
was only to get a clearer view of a handsome woman 
like you, when I see one.” 

Fiddle-de-dee, my fine fellow, keep your flatteries 
for school-girls. They are wasted on grandmothers,” 
said Jane Robins, good-humoredly, as she led Gertrude 
across the passage to the opposite front room, which 
was fitted up neatly, in rustic style, as a spare bed- 
chamber. 

Here the kind woman supplied the wearied young 
creature with fresh well water, and clean, soft towels, 
that smelt fragrantly of lavender. 

“ Now, I must leave you to yourself, my dear, while I 
run and see after my girl Minnie, that she does not 
scorch the toast or burn the bacon.” 

“This is true Arab hospitality,” said Gertrude to 
herself, when she was left alone. “ This woman does 
not even know our names, and yet she makes us wel- 
come, refreshes and feeds us, just because we tell her 
that we are friends of her friend.” 

She had her little travelling dressing-bag, that con- 
tained her whole luggage, in her hands. She set it on 
the white-draped toilet-table and opened and took from 
it her combs, brushes, eau de cologne^ clean pocket-hand- 
kerchief, collar and cuffs. 


GERTRUDE IN MAGDALa’s HOME. 


397 


By the time she had bathed her face and brushed her 
hair and put on her fresh linen collar and cuffs, her 
kind hostess came to the door and called her to break- 
fast, which was laid in the back room behind the parlor. 

It was a nice breakfast of black tea, fresh cream and 
butter, dried toast, broiled ham and poached eggs. 

Gertrude was too deeply disappointed, too keenly 
anxious, to eat much ; but she drank some of the 
excellent tea and tasted the toast and the poached 
eggs. 

Sallust quite made up for her deficiencies by consum- 
ing everything else that was' left on the table. 

After the meal was over, they took a grateful leave 
of their kind hostess and left the house. 

In the shady front yard they saw the poultry girl, 
Minnie Martin, with a child in her arms. Gertrude 
knew that this must be the babe she herself had rescued 
from the waves on the terrible night of the wreck ; 
but she did not wish to betray herself. 

She called the girl to her, however, and took the 
baby in her arms and kissed and blessed it. She asked 
no questions, for fear of exciting suspicions ; but the 
girl herself volunteered some information. 

“ Oh, miss,” she said, “this is Mr. John’s baby, as was 
saved from the sea by a young married lady, a colonel 
in the army’s wife, and she herself, poor lady, after- 
ward dro winded ! Wasn’t that awful ? But you should 
see how much the dear colonel do make of it for his 
dear lady’s sake. Why, when he was here, he kissed 
and hugged it like everythink, and he is agoing to fetch 
it up as his own and educate it, and all for his dear 
lady’s sake, because she saved it from the salt sea 
waves.” 

“ What on earth is she talking of, Mrs. Fitzgerald ?” 
whispered Sallust, impatiently. 


398 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ I will tell you when we return to the cab/’ mur- 
mured Gertrude, in reply. Then taking a sovereign 
iroTsi^iQr porte-monnaie^ she put it in the hands of the 
girl, saying : “ There ! Buy a coral and bells for the 
child and some trinket for yourself.” Then giving the 
babe another warm kiss and blessing, she hastened 
away and got into the cab. 

“ Back to London !” was the order given by Sallust, 
as he followed Gertrude and seated himself at her side. 

On their way to London, Gertrude, to satisfy Sallust’s 
curiosity, gave him a simple account of her rescue of 
John Robins’s child. 

“ Well, upon my sacred word of honor, what a fellow 
you are, to be sure ! Now, do you know I always said 
you were a brick, but I never thought you were a 
stunner !” were Mr. Rowley’s complimentary comments 
on Gertrude’s performance. 

“ I can swim. In truth, it would be impossible for 
me to sink unless I fainted first. So you see there was 
really no merit in what I did,” added Gertrude, sin- 
cerely. 

“ Oh, no, of course, no merit at all ! ^ /^j-body would 
have gladly burdened himself with the weight of a 
child while striving to keep himself afloat,” answered 
Sallust, sarcastically. 

“Now, Mr. Rowley, the child’s weight was next to 
nothing. Let us talk of something else. How far is 
the office of the Cunard line of steamers from London 
Bridge ?” 

“ Not far ! It is in the city. We can drive there in 
ten minutes after crossing the bridge.” 

When they had crossed London Bridge, Sallust 
directed the cabman to drive to the agency of the 
Cunard steamships, and, in fifteen minutes afterward, 
they reached the office and entered it. 


GERTRUDE IN MAGDALA’s HOME. 


399 


Sallust left Gertrude standing near the door, and he 
went up to the desk of the clerk and said : 

“ I wish to secure a stateroom in the first cabin of the 
Aszay which is to sail on the ist of March. Can I do so?” 

“ Well, sir,” said the clerk, if you had come one day 
earlier — ” 

I could have done so ; but now I am too late, I sup- 
pose. Well, I might have expected it. It is always my 
luck. I do declare it is !” said Sallust. 

“ You mistake me, sir. I was about to say, if you had 
come one day earlier, you could not have got a state- 
room. But this morning two American gentlemen came 
in and gave up the stateroom they had engaged to- 
gether, by paying the usual forfeiture of half the pass- 
age money. You can secure the stateroom if you 
choose.” 

“ Very well, then,” said heedless Sallust, “ I will 
take it.” 

Stay exclaimed Gertrude, coming forward, and 
then addressing herself to the agent. “ Will you be so 
kind, sir, as to tell us the names of the American gen- 
tlemen who gave up their stateroom ?” 

“Certainly, miss,” said the agent, referring to his 
books. “ The names were the Rev. Dr. Goodwin and 
Colonel Fitzgerald.” 

“ What exclaimed Sallust, in astonishment. 

“ Is that really so ?” inquired Gertrude, gently. 

“ Yes, miss ; you can see the names of the parties and 
the number of the stateroom recorded in this book, and 
you may also see the same names canceled in the same 
number in the diagram of the ship.” 

“ It is not necessary, sir. But would you kindly tell 
me, if you know, why these gentlemen, who were 
friends of ours, gave up their passage in this ship? 
That is, if you happen to know,” said Gertrude. 


400 


THE REJECTED' BRIDE. 


“ Certainly. They were very anxious to sail by an 
earlier one, but found it impossible to do so, until yes- 
terday morning, when they learned that an English fam- 
ily, who were going over in the Europa^ would have to 
give up their passage on account of the extreme illness 
of one of the party. So yesterday morning. Colonel 
Fitzgerald came in here and gave up his own and his 
-party’s stateroom in the Asia^ and engaged the two 
staterooms given up by the English family on the 
Europa. 

“ When does the Europa sail ?” inquired Sallust. 

“ The Europa ? Why, she sailed this morning, sir !” 

Gertrude reeled and would have fallen, had not Sal- 
lust hastened to support her. 

“A glass of water, for heaven’s sake !” exclaimed the 
young man, as he placed his fainting companion in the 
only chair in the office. 

“ This lady had hoped to go home in the same ship 
with these gentlemen, who are near and dear friends of 
hers,” said Sallust, on explanation to the agent, who 
brought a goblet of water. 

Gertrude rallied her faculties with an effort, and in- 
quired : 

‘‘ But are you sure, sir, that they really went on this 
steamer ?” 

“ Here is the list of passengers, miss. You can see 
for yourself,” said the agent, placing the day’s Times in 
her hands. 

Gertrude took it and read the list that he pointed out. 
Among the names were : “ The Rev. Dr. Goodwin, 
Colonel Fitzgerald and servant. Miss Fitzgerald and 
maid.” 

The paper dropped from Gertrude’s hands, and she 
raised them and covered her pale and agonized face, 
murmuring to her own heart : 


GERTRUDE IN MAGDALA’s HOME. 


401 


Oh, my Lord, there is a fatality in this ! He still 
thinks that I am lost at sea ; and he is with her for two 
weeks to come ! The old spell will work ! Can he with- 
stand it T 

“This disappointment has been too much for the 
lady,” said Sallust, apologetically. 

“Well! It need not be quite a disappointment ! You 
can take the Irish mail to Holyhead, the mail boat across 
the channel to Kingston and then the mail train to 
Queenstown to meet the steamer there, where she will 
wait for this very train to get the last London mails be- 
fore sailing. Now, if you have pluck enough and look 
sharp, you can do that,” said the agent, encouragingly. 

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed Gertrude, excitedly, “ is there 
indeed a hope — a possibility of overtaking that steamer ?” 

“ There is a certainty, miss, if you will look sharp. 
But you must take the noon train to Holyhead, so as to 
catch the evening boat to Kingston and get the early 
morning train from thence to Cork, so as to meet the 
steamer at Queenstown to-morrow,” said the agent. 

“ Oh, sir, you cannot estimate how grateful I feel to 
you for this information !” 

“ Not at all, miss. I cannot, unfortunately, give you 
a stateroom ; but as one of the rooms engaged by your 
friends has two berths and only one young lady passen- 
ger, of course, you can share her room,” explained the 
agent. 

“ Thanks, sir, a thousand thanks ! Oh, Mr. Rowley, 
let us make haste ! It is eleven o’clock now ! Let us 
hasten to secure the noon train to Holyhead !” said Ger- 
trude, pointing to the office clock, and rising in a hurry. 

“ Plenty of time ! The greatest plenty of time I We 
have no packing to do — no baggage to check ! By the 
way, they don’t check baggage here, I think. However, 
we have no Lmpediments of any sort. So, come along. 


402 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


my dear lady ! Good morning, sir !” said Sallust, draw- 
ing Gertrude’s arm within his own, and hurrying to the 
cab. 

To the Euston Square Station ! And double your 
fare if you get there a quarter before twelve !” was the 
order Sallust gave the astonished cabman, as he put 
Gertrude into the cab, followed her and took his seat 
by her side. 

“ This chasing an ocean steamer is not what it is 
cracked up to be !” exclaimed Sallust, with a deep sigh. 

The cabman cracked his whip and rattled off at a 
spanking pace. 

So great was Gertrude’s state of suspense and excite- 
ment that she could not speak one word. 

The drive was performed in perfect silence. 

When they drew up at the Euston Square Station, the 
almost deserted look of the place dismayed Sallust. 

Putting his head out of the window, he hailed a sta- 
tion policeman, and inquired : 

“Has the Irish mail- train started yet ?” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE OLD SPELL. 

So, at length, they meet thus, and reweave the old charm. 
And she hangs on his voice and leans on his arm. 

— Owen Meredith. 

We must now return to Colonel Fitzgerald and Doc- 
tor Goodwin, and relate the unexpected and startling 
events that hastened their voyage to America. 

We left them seated in the parlor of their lodgings, 
in Hollis Street, on the night previous to their intended 
departure on a tour through Cornwall and Wales, which 


THE OLD SPELL. 


403 


was designed to fill up the weary time that must have 
intervened before the sailing of their ship, and so to at- 
tract the thoughts of Gerald Fitzgerald from dwelling 
too fixedly on his recent and heavy affliction. 

When Colonel Fitzgerald had expressed his entire 
satisfaction with the plan proposed by Doctor Goodwin 
for the accommodation of Miss Fitzgerald on board the 
Asia — a plan by which the two gentlemen were to give 
up their commodious stateroom, in the first cabin of the 
crowded steamer, to the use of the lady, and to content 
themselves with such berths as they could find in the 
second cabin — Doctor Goodwin sat down to his writing- 
table to answer Geraldine’s note, and to inform her of 
the arrangements that had been made for her comfort 
on the voyage. 

Gerald Fitzgerald took the evening papers that lay 
upon the center-table, and began to look over them. 

Silence fell upon the scene, that lasted until it was 
broken by the sound of the postman’s single but decided 
knock. 

Colonel Fitzgerald looked up from his paper. 

Doctor Goodwin laid down his pen. 

Both waited silently until the door opened and Jubal 
appeared with two letters, literally crossed and recrossed 
with directions, and half covered with foreign stamps. 

Those letters seem to have circumnavigated the 
globe in search of their right owners ! Is there one for 
me ?” inquired the doctor. 

“No,” answered the colonel, as he took the two letters 
from the hands of his servant and looked at them with 
the listless air of a man who had lost all interest in the 
affairs of this life. “ No, they are both for myself, and 
appear to have followed me, as you remarked, half over 
the world. At least,” he continued, as he carelessly 
examined the stamps, “ they have followed me through 


404 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


a dozen post-offices, and lastly from tlie general post- 
office in Paris hither.’* 

“ Well, since they have followed you such a weary 
way, it would only be common kindness to see what 
they have got to say to you,” exclaimed Doctor Good- 
win, perceiving that Colonel Fitzgerald still held the 
letters, unopened, in his hands, with an air of utter 
indifference to their contents. 

Oh, I don’t suppose they have anything to say. Not 
one letter in a hundred has, you know,” answered the 
colonel, with a sigh. 

‘‘ If the question is a fair one, who are they from ?” 
inquired the doctor. 

“ I don’t know I will tell you in a moment,” answered 
the colonel, as he broke the seals of the two letters, 
opened them and referred to their signatures. 

“ Well ?” said the doctor. 

“ One is from Dr. Peter Shaw, physician in charge 
of the Wilde County Almshouse. What in the deuce 
does he write to me about ? Some of my relations on 
the county ? Like enough. Let us see the other. 
This other is from Father Dubarry, the pastor of St. 
Patrick’s Church, Wildeville ! And what does he write 
to me about, I wonder ?” ruminated Gerald Fitzgerald, 
looking at the signature. 

“ Seems to me the quickest way to find out is to read 
the letters. At least, Mr. Dubarry will be able to give 
us news of our friends, the Greenleafs and others whom 
we would like to hear from,’* dryly remarked Doctor 
Goodwin. 

‘‘Yes,” wearily replied Colonel Fitzgerald, as he 
turned to the first page of the priest’s letter and began 
to peruse it. 

Doctor Goodwin looked on with interest. 

As Gerald Fitzgerald read, his face .grew very grave 


THE OLD SPELL. 


405 


and troubled. When he finished reading the letter for 
the first time, he returned to the first page and reread 
it very slowly and thoughtfully. Then he refolded it 
carefully, returned it to the envelope and placed it in 
the breast-pocket of his coat. 

Then he took up the physician’s letter and read that 
also slowly and thoughtfully twice over. Having fin- 
ished its perusal, he refolded it and replaced it in its 
envelope, and put it with the first one iix the breast- 
pocket of his coat. Then he turned to the doctor and 
upset his nerves by the following abrupt statement : 

“ I must leave for America by the steamer that sails 
on Wednesday, if I have to take a steerage berth !” 

If the doctor had not been a Christian and a clergy- 
man, he might have exploded in something like the 
name of his Satanic majesty. But being a Christian 
and a clergyman, he mildly observed : 

“ The mischief !” 

“Yes; and you must accompany me, if possible; if 
not, then you must follow me by the first steamer,” 
added Colonel Fitzgerald, emphatically. 

“ Soh ! I must take a sea voyage, in the steerage, on 
the spur of the moment ! Gerald,” said the doctor, 
with just the slightest dash of sarcasm in the patient 
resignation of his manner, “Gerald, would it incon- 
venience you to explain ?” 

“Yes — no — I mean to say that I will tell you all about 
it, and then you will see why I must go immediately 
2iXvdiyou as soon as possible.” 

“ Yes. Well ?” 

“ The mad woman Magdala is in the infirmar / of the 
Wilde County Almshouse — mad no longer, but in the 
full possession of her mental faculties.” 

“ The letter from the physician in charge tells you 

this r 


406 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“Yes, and the letter from the priest as well. The 
woman has entirely recovered her reason, but is fatally 
ill, and anxiously desirous to see me before she dies — 
having a secret which she will confide to no living ears 
but mine. It is the secret that she told my father on 
his death-bed, and that she now wishes to tell me, but 
will not tell another.” 

“ Have you any idea of the nature of this secret ?” 

“ No, I have not. I only know that hitherto the poor 
creature has tried to hold it over our heads like the 
mysterious and terrible sword of Damocles, ready to 
descend upon us, with death and destruction, upon the 
faintest shadow of offense offered to her ladyship,” said 
Fitzgerald, with a slight smile. 

“ Do you really believe that she has anything to re- 
veal ?” inquired the doctor. 

“ My father thought so. In his last moments he told 
me that Magdala knew — something, and that it was 
true. When I asked him what Magdala knew, his hand 
closed spasmodically on mine, and he answered : ‘ Listen ! 
I will tell you all.’ These were his very last words ; 
for when I bent my ear to his lips, he had ceased to 
breathe. Yes, my father believed that Magdala pos- 
sessed some unhappy secret, whose revelation might 
ruin his family,” said Gerald, gravely. 

“ But is it not possible that this belief of Mr. Maurice 
Fitzgerald was a mere hallucination, produced upon this 
sick, infirm and dying man by the words and actions of 
the mad woman ?” 

“ Possibly. I have thought of that. Yet these letters 
rather support the theory of my father, that the woman 
has an important and dangerous secret. Perhaps, after 
all, I had better show you the letters, if you will take 
the trouble to read them.” 

“ Certainly. I would like to do so.” 


THE OLD SPELL. 


407 


Colonel Fitzgerald drew the letters from his pocket 
and handed them over to Doctor Goodwin, saying : 

“ Read first Father Dubarry’s letter.” 

Doctor Goodwin opened the priest’s letter, and read 
as follows : 

‘Office of the Almshouse, ^ 

WiLDViLLE, Va., U. S. a., January 15, 18—. ^ 

“ ‘ My Beloved Son in the Lord : I write, hoping this letter 
may overtake you in your wanderings and hasten your return 
home. I write at the earnest request of the poor wandering 
woman Magdala, or rather, as I should say, the woman whom 
you have so long known as Magdala, for, it seems, that that is 
not her right name.’” 

“ How.? Not her right name?” inquired the doctor, 
pausing in his perusal of the letter, and looking up over 
the top of his spectacles. 

So it appears. Read on,” said Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ But, then, if that is so, we have all been in the wrong 
in supposing this woman to be the lost daughter of Ga- 
briel Haddon,” persisted the doctor, still staring wildly 
over the tops of his spectacles. 

“ It disturbs our theory, certainly ; and that is one 
reason why you must either accompany me, or follow 
me, as soon as possible,” replied Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ Well, I declare, have we lost — the clue again ? Upon 
my word, this search for the lost daughter is like the 
game of ‘ hunt the slipper.’ We are now warm and then 
cool ; now hot and then cold ; now burning alive, and 
now freezing to death !” growled the doctor. 

“ It is confusing, certainly, but read on,” said Colonel 
Fitzgerald. 

Doctor Goodwin took up the priest's letter and re- 
sumed his reading : 

“ ‘ This woman, whose real name is Clea Phara, and who is an 
English gipsy, was found on last New Year’s Day in an exhausted 
and unconscious condition in the forest, by some men who were 
out hunting the deer. 


408 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ ‘ When brought to the almshouse, she was in a nearly dying 
condition from the effects of cold, exposure and starvation. She 
has, however, a constitution of wonderful strength and elasticity. 
With the use of proper means, she was saved from immediate 
death. 

“ ‘ In a few days she recovered sufficiently to sit up and talk a 
little. And then they discovered that she had regained her 
mental faculties, also, that she was quite conscious of her 
approaching death. 

“ ‘ She first asked to see the physician of the almshouse, and 
when he came, she bluntly asked him how many days she had 
to live. 

“ ‘ With the physician’s policy, he replied to her that she had 
as many days to live as she wanted to have. In other words, 
that it dej>ended largely on herself how long she had to live, and 
if she would keep quiet and take care of herself, she might yet 
live to be very old. 

“ ‘ To this flattering tale, however, the strange woman replied 
by one strong old English word : 

“ ‘ She then asked to see a Catholic priest, adding that they 
were the only ministers who were bound to keep the secret con- 
fided to them.’ ” 

“Now that is not so,” said Doctor Goodwin, again 
pausing in the perusal of his letter and looking over 
the tops of his spectacles — “that is not at all so. I 
dare to say that, in the course of my long ministry, I 
have received as many confidences as any minister of 
any sect in the world, and I have never betrayed one 
yet !” 

“ Never mind, never mind, my dear Doctor Goodwin ; 
read on,” replied Fitzgerald. 

The worthy doctor recovered his place and read : 

“ ‘ I came at the woman’s call, and while sitting down by her 
bedside I saw that she had not long to live. Of me also she 
asked the momentous question : 

“ ‘ “ How many days shall I remain in this life ?” 

“ ‘ I told her just as many as should please the Lord ; that our 
days were in His hands, and no man knew the number thereof. 

“ ‘ She made no comment, but abruptly told me that she had a 
secret to reveal before her death— a secret that vitally concerned 
Col. Gerald Fitzgerald and his family, and she inquired if I knew 
where you could be found. 


THE OLD SPELL. 


409 


“ ^ I replied that I knew where a letter could find you. 

‘ ‘ She then requested me to write. 

“ ‘ I answered that I would do so, and asked whether I should 
write to her dictation. 

“ ^ She said no; that she could not dictate the words, but would 
give me the substance of what I should tell you. 

“ ‘ She then told me that her name was not Magdala; that she 
had never stated it to be so ; but that the people of Wilde County, 
with their usual sagacity, had thrust it upon her, merely because, 
when she was first fished up from the flood of Wilde River, a 
small morocco porte-monnaie was found in her pocket, with 
the name of Magdala engraved upon the gilt clasp ; but that this 
was not her name but the name of the lady who had given it 
to her.’ ” 

“ Now, that is a very simple explanation ! I hope 
that little relic has been preserved ; for its existence, 
taken with its circumstances, would lead to the theory 
that it must have belonged to our Magdala Haddon or 
Magdala Lackland,” said Doctor Goodwin, once more 
looking up from his letter. 

Yes, but go on, my dear sir. We can discuss these 
matters afterward,” replied Colonel Fitzgerald. 

Doctor Goodwin patiently resumed the reading of his 
oft interrupted letter : 

‘The woman then told me that her name was Clea Phara. 
She was the daughter of a gipsy tribe in the north of England. 

“ ‘Twenty years before, she had met with a young American 
tourist, who, for the love of her dark beauty, abandoned home, 
friends and country, and became an adopted son of her people. 

“ ‘ He had married her by the rites of the gipsy tribes, that were 
not considered binding in Christian communities, however bind- 
ing they might be among the gipsies. Therefore, though she 
was bound, he was free. Though she was his wife, by the laws of 
her people, he was not her husband, by the laws of any Christian 
country. 

“ ‘ After three years’ wanderings with the gipsies, he had grown 
tired of her, and, consequently, of them and their manner of life, 
and had disappeared from their midst. 

“ ‘ She also then left her tribe, and went in search of him. She 
wandered over England, Wales and Scotland for thirteen monthsj 
before she found him, as the husband of a fair young girl and the 
father of a lovely babe, and on the eve of sailing with them for 
the United States. 


410 


i'Hfi REJECTED BRIDE. 


‘‘ ^ She took passage in the steerage of the same ship. But steer- 
age passengers are as effectuall}’^ barred from all communication 
with cabin passengers as if a few thousand miles divided them, 
instead of a few planks. 

“ ‘ She could neither see nor speak to the man during the voy- 
age ; nor could she do so even when they landed at New York ; 
yet she contrived to keep trace of his movements. 

“ ‘ She followed him down to Virginia, and finally to Wildeville, 
where the great inundation of Wilde River separated them; but 
not until she had learned his real history — a history fraught with 
deep dishonor and irretrievable ruin to the whole Fitzgerald fam- 
ily, but particularly to Colonel Gerald Fitzgerald of the Summit. 
Therefore she must see Gerald Fitzgerald in person, for to him, 
and to him only, would she communicate the secret that she had 
told to his father on that father’s death-bed. 

“ ‘ No argument or persuasion of mine could move her resolu- 
tion to keep the secret until then. 

‘‘ ^ She flatly and firmly refused even to tell me the name of the 
man who had wronged her ; for she said that the very name would 
give me the key of the mystery. 

“ ‘ So, my dear son, I write to urge you to return at once. I do 
not believe that the honor and prosperity of the Fitzgeralds can 
be touched by anything this woman can reveal. But you know, 
my good son, that there was one dark page folded down in the 
fair history of your house, and that to this day no one ever has 
read what was recorded upon it, or heard whatever really became 
of its hero. However, come at once, and all will be well. I send 
with this the doctor’s letter, thinking that his report of the pa- 
tient’s condition may give you satisfaction. And that the bless- 
ing of heaven may rest on you always, dear son, is the daily 
prayer of your poor father in the Lord, 

‘ Francis Dubarry.’ ” 

“ Well, now, what do you think of that letter ?” in- 
quired Colonel Fitzgerald. 

“ I don’t know. It requires time to think of it,” re- 
plied the doctor. 

“ You understand the writer’s reference to that ‘dark 
page in the fair history ’ of our house ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; but as nothing is really known about that 
folded-down page, we cannot tell how dark or even how 
fair it may have been. I agree with Mr. Dubarry in be- 
lieving that nothing the woman may have to reveal can 


THE OLD SPELL. 


411 


bring reproach upon the Fitzgeralds,” emphatically an- 
swered the doctor. 

“ Thanks, sir. Read the other letter — Shaw’s letter 
— if you please, and then we will decide at once on what 
is to be done. Time is flying, you know,” said Colonel 
Fitzgerald, earnestly. 

‘‘Yes; but nothing can be done until to-morrow 
morning, as far as I can see,” replied the doctor, as he 
took up and unfoldeS the second letter. 

“ Except to consult and arrange. That can be done.” 

The doctor unfolded and read : 

^ Dispensary, Almshouse, ) 

WILDEVILLE, Va., U. S. A., January 15th, 18—. I 

‘‘‘My Dear Sir: The Rev. Mr. Dubarry, pastor of St. Pat- 
rick’s parish in this county, requests me to write to you and re- 
port the condition of one Magdala, a vagrant recently picked up 
in a half-dying condition, and brought to this house. She has 
been under my charge for the last two weeks, and her condition 
has temporarily improved, although her ultimate recovery is im- 
possible. She is ill with pulmonary consumption, brought on by 
long-continued privation and exposure. But she has a very strong 
constitution, and may survive weeks or even months. If, however, 
as the Rev. Mr. Dubarry informs me, you are sufficiently inter- 
ested in this poor creature to wish to see her before she dies, I 
should advise you to lose no time in coming hither. I have only 
to add that the woman Magdala has undoubtedly recovered her 
reason and is in full possession of all her mental faculties. 

“ ‘Respectfully, Peter Shaw, M. D.’” 

Having finished reading this letter. Doctor Goodwin 
folded it and returned it with the other to Colonel Fitz- 
gerald, who stowed them both in his breast-pocket. 

“ Now to business,” said Gerald. “ I repeat that I 
shall sail for New York on the Europa^ that goes on 
Wednesday, even if I have to take a steerage passage, 
and that you, in the interest of the cause you have 
adopted, should go with me, if possible, or, if not, that 
you should follow me as soon as possible.” 

Well, that somewhat interferes with my proposed 


412 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


escort of Miss Fitzgerald. She certainly could not sail 
as a steerage passenger,” remarked the doctor. 

“ No, not very well, indeed,” replied Fitzgerald. 

“ And, of course, I need not send this letter ; but 
must write another one intimating our changed plans,” 
said the doctor, as he picked up the note he had written 
to Geraldine and threw it into the waste-paper basket. 

‘‘ I think we had better do nothing in regard to Miss 
Fitzgerald's affairs until we have communicated with 
the agent of the Cunard steamships. I will go down 
to the office to-morrow as soon as it is open and give 
up our staterooms in the Asia^ and see what possible 
accommodations we can find in the Europa^' said Colonel 
Fitzgerald. 

Thereupon the two gentlemen retired to rest. 

Early the next morning, according to arrangement. 
Colonel Fitzgerald took a “ hansom ” and drove down 
to the office of the Cunard line of steamships. 

He explained to the agent, in general terms, that 
important business summoned him to America sooner 
than he had arranged to go, and that, therefore, he 
should have to give up his staterooms on the Asia and 
take such accommodations as he could find on the very 
first steamer that should sail for the United States, 
namely, the Europa^ which would start on Wednesday. 

The agent smiled slightly, and answered that he was 
glad to inform the colonel that by a very unusual 
chance he would be able to accommodate him on the 
Europa. 

The applicant looked up in surprise and doubt, not 
knowing whether the agent meant to offer him a berth 
in the second cabin or the steerage. 

The agent then explained that a family of six per- 
sons, who had engaged to go over on the Europa^ had 
been obliged to postpone their voyage on account of 


THE OLD SPELL. 


413 


the sudden illness of one of their party, and that the 
head of that family had just been in the office and 
had given up their two staterooms in the first cabin of 
the Europa. These were large, well-lighted and well- 
ventilated communicating rooms amidships, and either 
or both were at the service of the colonel and his party. 

“ Then I will engage both at once,” said Gerald Fitz- 
gerald, with surprise and gratification, as he pulled out 
his pocket-book and counted down the price that was 
to secure the double prize. 

The agent received the money and returned the 
tickets. 

Colonel Fitzgerald took them, bowed, hurried from 
the office, sprang into his cab and drove rapidly to his 
lodgings in Hollis Street. 

“ Well,” exclaimed Doctor Goodwin, as he met the 
colonel on the first floor landing. “Well, have you 
secured a berth in the steerage among three hundred 
emigrant families, babies, pigs and chickens ?” 

“ I have, by the strangest stroke of good fortune for 
us^ secured two fine rooms in the first cabin amidships !” 
replied Colonel Fitzgerald, as he drew off his gloves, 
threw them to his servant and entered the parlor. 

“ What ? In the Europa ?” exclaimed the astonished 
doctor. 

“ In the Eiiropap replied the colonel, throwing him- 
self into an arm-chair. 

“ That sails on next Wednesday .?” pursued Doctor 
Goodwin. 

“ That will sail on next Wednesday,” answered Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald. 

“ Explain, explain, my dear Gerald ! This news is 
too good to be true !” 

Colonel Fitzgerald explained. 

“Then we must leave here to-morrow morning in 


414 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


order to be in good time. I must immediately go to the 
Royal Cambridge and inform Miss Fitzgerald that 
urgent business calls us instantly home, and that we 
leave London to-morrow morning,” said Doctor Good- 
win, rising and looking for his hat. 

“ Y ou can tell her also that, in view of her wish to re- 
turn home with you, two large staterooms have been 
engaged, one of which is at the service of Miss Fitzger- 
ald,” added Gerald. 

“ Yes, I will tell her ; but I doubt very much if she 
will go on so short a notice. Did you ever know a 
woman to get ready for a day’s journey, to say nothing 
of a fortnight’s voyage, in less than a week ?” demanded 
the doctor. 

“Yes,” said Gerald, softly, “I knew one — And if 
Geraldine is as anxious to return home as she expresses 
herself to be, and if she is as strong-willed and impet- 
uous as she used to be, she will make her maid pack a 
travelling-bag for the voyage, and she will leave all her 
effects to be sent after her by the Transatlantic For- 
warding Company, and she will go with us on the 
Eiiropa, 'Shori as the notice is,” he added. 

“ Well, we need not make the notice any shorter than 
necessary, so I am off now to warn her,” replied the 
doctor, hurriedly leaving the room. 

The cab that had brought Colonel Fitzgerald from 
the city still stood before the door. The doctor got into 
it, and ordered the cabman to drive quickly to the 
Royal Cambridge Hotel. 


LOST LOVE. 


4l5 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

LOST LOVE. 

“ Why did I not ?” her spirit murmurs deep, 

At every cost of momentary pride, 

Preserve the love for which in vain I weep? 

Why had I thought or wish or hope beside I 

O, cruel issue of a jealous thought ; 

O, long, long echo of an angry tone ; 

O, fruitless lesson, mercilessly taught, 

Alone to linger and to die alone ! 

Were I one moment with that presence blest, 

I would o’erwhelm him with my humble pain. 

I would invade the soul I once possest. 

And, once for all, my ancient love regain.” 

— Monckton Milnes. 

The event proved Gerald Fitzgerald to be correct in 
his estimate of Geraldine's character and conduct. 

In less than an hour, Doctor Goodwin returned, en- 
tered the parlor, put down his hat, threw himself into 
an arm-chair, and exclaimed : 

“ She is a fine, prompt girl, after all ! She made no 
difficulties at all, but gladly and gratefully accepted my 
offer.” 

“ I thought she would do so. What further arrange- 
ments have you made for Miss Fitzgerald ?” 

“ None. She will give us no trouble at all. Monsieur 
and Madame de La Vallette will take her in their car- 
riage to Euston Square, to meet us on the nine a. m. 
express for Liverpool, that being our train, of course.” 

“ Quite right. I am glad that her convenience is so 
well provided for,” said Colonel Fitzgerald, who then 
left the parlor to attend to the packing of some few 
articles of virtu that he had picked up in London. 


41G 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


The wreck of the Messenger had indeed relieved him 
of all the treasures of art and literature that he had col- 
lected while travelling over Europe, and so had light- 
ened the cares and toils of travel by sea or land. Not 
much of impedimenti had Gerald Fitzgerald to hinder 
his movements in car or ship. 

With what feelings did Gerald Fitzgerald look for- 
ward to his meeting with Geraldine ? 

With repugnance, with nothing more or less than 
simple repugnance. 

He looked upon her as the imrnediate, though inno- 
cent, cause of Gertrude’s death. He associated her 
now with the great sorrow and remorse of his life. 
After his loss, and while circumstances had compelled 
him to endure the company of Geraldine, he had 
scarcely been able to look at her or speak to her with 
common courtesy. 

Since their separation on board the Mary Jane^ when 
Geraldine had gone with her friends, the La Vallettes, 
to the Royal Cambridge Hotel, and Gerald had joined 
Doctor Goodwin on Hollis Street, he had never seen 
her or sought to see her. He had even shrunk from 
the performance of his duty as a gentleman, in render- 
ing her the common courtesy of calling at her hotel to 
inquire about her health, after the terrible disaster they 
had suffered together. 

Yes, he shrunk with something like horror from 
meeting her again. 

And yet he felt some pity for her. Heiress and 
beauty as she was, Geraldine was really alone in the 
world. Death had deprived her of all near relatives, 
and her own temper estranged all true friends and 
banished even her betrothed husband. 

Yes, beauty and heiress as she was, Geraldine was 
unhappy and alone in the world. 


LOST LOVE. 


417 


Gerald, though he shrank from her with pain and 
repugnance, yet pitied her, and did what he could to 
serve her, in securing comfortable accommodations for 
her on the steamer. 

But now it was settled that she would certainly go 
with Doctor Goodwin and himself, his thoughts became' 
busy with the problem how — during the ten or twelve 
days they must be on board the same ship — he should 
be able to escape from her company and conversation 
without seeming rudely and cruelly to avoid her. 

He decided at length that he must leave it all to 
chance. 

The remainder of the day was devoted to paying bills 
and packing books and papers. 

The two gentlemen retired at an early hour’ so that 
they might rise with the" sun and have ample time to 
get breakfast and reach their train. 

They were called by Jubal just as the first red rays 
of the winter sun were bursting through the London 
fog and creeping in between the slats of their window 
shutters. 

By the time they had made their toilets, breakfast 
was on the table. 

When they had 'eaten their breakfasts the cab and 
the van were at the door, the first to convey themselves, 
and the second to carry their luggage to the railway 
station. 

The two gentlemen entered the cab, and Jubal, with 
the little Scotch terrier in his arms, mounted to a seat 
beside the cabman. 

They started for Euston Square, followed by the van 
containing their luggage. 

“ I like this after all better than making a tour through 
Wales and Cornwall, at this season of the year,” said 
Doctor Goodwin, as he settled himself in his seat. 


418 


THE REJECTED feRIDE. 


“Yes,” answered Colonel Fitzgerald, abstractedly. 
He was again thinking how he should contrive to avoid 
Geraldine during the two weeks that they were to be 
shut up together in the same ship. 

Perceiving that his companion was abstracted and 
averse to conversation. Doctor Goodwin ceased to 
speak, and the drive was continued in silence. 

They arrived at Euston Square in good season, and 
saw the van with their luggage come up in safety. 

They also saw the carriage and liveried servants of 
the French minister. But the carriage was empty and 
the servants idle, indicating that Monsieur and Madame 
de La Vallette, with Miss Fitzgerald, were in the ladies’ 
waiting-room. 

Thither the two gentlemen went in search of them. 

There they found between forty and fifty ladies, 
gentlemen and children, waiting for the train to be 
made up. 

The colonel and the doctor took a turn through this 
crowd before they found the group for whom they were 
in search. - 

At length they discovered the party seated together 
before a window, with their backs to the crowd. 

Bonjour^ monsieur et madame. You see that I am 
here in time to relieve you of your lovely charge. I 
hope I find you quite well, Miss Fitzgerald ?” said the 
doctor, with old-fashioned politeness, as he bowed be- 
fore the group. 

“ I am quite well, thank you. Doctor Goodwin,” an- 
swered Geraldine, after the French lady and gentleman 
had returned his salutation. 

“ And here is Colonel Fitzgerald come to pay his re- 
spects,” said the well-meaning doctor, drawing his re- 
luctant companion into notice. 

Gerald bowed and uttered some commonplace words 


LOST T>OVE. 


419 


of courtesy to Monsieur and Madame de La Vallette, 
who responded to them in kind. 

Then he turned to Geraldine and, by way of saying 
something, said : 

** I trust that the suddenness of our voyage and the 
shortness of our notice have not seriously inconveni- 
enced you, Miss Fitzgerald ?” 

“ Oh, no : I never permit trifles to inconvenience 
me. I rather think it upset my maid more than me,” 
replied Geraldine, with a light tone. But her cheek was 
pale as marble, and the hand that she carelessly offered- 
to her cousin trembled in his clasp. 

He dropped her hand. He had looked forward to 
this meeting with her with the greatest repugnance. 
He had tried to devise means for avoiding her. He was 
sure that he had outlived his fatal infatuation for her. 
And yet — that which he had told his young wife more 
than a year before, he felt to be true on this day — /le 
could not even yet meet Geraldine zvith unshaken nerves. 

He dropped her hand and turned toward the pretty 
little French lady, with some gay and graceful compli- 
ment that made her laugh and chatter. 

Presently, Jubal entered to inform his master that the 
express train was made up, and their luggage piled on 
the top of the first-class carriage he had secured for the 
party. 

The signal-bell rang at the same moment. 

“ Well, my dear Miss Fitzgerald, it is a most ungra- 
cious task for me to perform. To be the first to give 
the word for the breaking-up of such a pleasant group ; 
but I believe that bell means that we must take our 
seats or lose our train. Say good-bye to our friends, 
my dear. Say good-bye to them.. 

‘ Parting is such sweet sorrow,’ etc,, etc., etc.,” 
said the doctor, with a deep sigh. 


420 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Come, come, my dear Doctor Goodwin, you are far 
too sensible to be sentimental,” said Geraldine, rising 
with assumed gayety ; then turning to her French 
friends, she said: Adieu, monsieur, and a thousand 
thanks for all your tenderness to me. Au revoir, belle 
Veronique, for I cannot say adieu to you !” 

But while monsieur was expressing the delight he had 
felt in the society of mademoiselle, when she honored 
madame and himself with her charming company, the 
impulsive French woman forgot she was, a lady, and fell 
upon the neck of her friend, weeping plenteously. 

The peremptory exigencies of the occasion soon sepa- 
rated them. 

'‘^Monsieur le Baro7t — chere Veroftique — remember 
your promise to visit me in my mountain-home in west 
Virginia ! I shall expect to see you in June. Nay, not 
adieu, but au revoir, dear friends !” were the last words 
of Geraldine to her late host and hostess. 

Colonel Fitzgerald and Doctor Goodwin then bade 
farewell to Monsieur and Madame de La Vallette. 
Doctor Goodwin drew Geraldine’s arm within his own 
and led her toward the train, followed by Jubal and 
Meta, with their arms full of shawls, bags, umbrellas 
and other paraphernalia of travel. 

Colonel Fitzgerald walked on alone. 

Jubal showed the way to the carriage that he had 
engaged for his master’s party. 

A guard in attendance opened the door. There were 
no other passengers in it. 

“ You would like this kept private for your party, 
gentlemen, if you please ?” suggested the guard. 

“ Yes, we have taken it all,” answered Doctor Good- 
win, as he handed Geraldine into her seat and took his 
place by her side, followed by Colonel Fitzgerald. 

Jubal and Meta stowed away the shawls, bags, um- 


LOST LOVE. 


421 


brellas and so forth, on and under the vacant seats, and 
then went off, carrying the little dog with them, to their 
places in the second-class carriage. 

The guard closed and locked the carriage doors, 
touched his hat at the window and withdrew. ' 

These arrangements had scarcely been concluded, 
when the train began to move slowly out of the station, 
gathering speed every minute, until at length it whirled 
onward, with amazing velocity, toward its destina- 
tion. 

It was an eight-seated compartment, the seats being 
crosswise of the carriage, four front and four back, 
facing each other as in a family coach. 

Gerald Fitzgerald and Geraldine sat on the front 
seats, but in opposite corners, with two vacant places 
between them, so that they really, though so near, saw 
very little of each other. 

Opposite Gerald, on the corner of the back seat, re- 
posed Doctor Goodwin, whom the motion of the train 
sent fast asleep. 

Geraldine took a book from her travelling-bag and 
soon seemed to be absorbed in her reading. 

Gerald, thus tacitly excused from all attempts to 
entertain his fair fellow-traveller, delivered himself 
up to the sad, remorseful memories that had been his 
companions, judges, torturers, ever since his loss of 
Gertrude. 

This was the express-train, and it stopped but at a few 
stations. 

Doctor Goodwin, who was Miss Fitzgerald’s especial 
escort, woke up at every stopping-place and got out and 
brought her tea, coffee, water, wine, cake, fruit or sand- 
wiches, nearly all of which she declined with thanks. 

After a five hours’ ride northward, they reached 
Liverpool at two o’clock in the afternoon. 


422 


THE REJECTED BRIDE, 


They took a cab and drove to the Adelphi, where 
they easily procured comfortable rooms. 

“ Our ship is anchored some miles down the Mersey, 
and is reached only by a steam-tender. She sails at 
eig-ht o'clock to-morrow morning, and we must be on 
board at seven. I think, therefore, that we had better 
send on our luggage to the steamer direct, so as to be 
disembarrassed to-morrow morning, when we will be in 
a hurry,” suggested Doctor Goodwin. 

His advice was followed, and Jubal, armed with the 
tickets of the party, was sent in charge of the luggage 
to the steam-tender. 

Our party ordered dinner in their private parlor, and 
while they sat together at table. Doctor Goodwin did 
most of the talking, Gerald and Geraldine only ex- 
changing such words as the common courtesy of life 
necessitated. 

After dinner. Doctor Goodwin, as the responsible 
agent of Miss Fitzgerald, took her to hear a renowned 
novelist, who was then giving public readings of selec- 
tions from his own works. 

They returned home to a late supper, immediately 
after which they all retired to rest. 

Thus far Gerald Fitzgerald had not been much dis- 
tressed by the company of Geraldine. 

Nor was he even after their embarkation on the 
Europa. ‘ 

They were on board at seven. The ship sailed at eight. 

Geraldine remained on deck until they lost sight of 
Liverpool, when she retired to her stateroom, where she 
found that a port-light commanded a full view of one 
shore of the river. 

She remained in her stateroom all day long, appear- 
ing in public only at dinner and at tea, and then retiring 
again, 


LOST LOVE. 


m 

It would almost seem as if she intended to save Colo- 
nel Fitzgerald all embarrassment on /ler account by 
sedulously avoiding him. 

When night came she retired early and, rocked by the 
motion of the steamer, she slept soundly and slept long. 

She was awakened the next morning by two causes — 
the first was the stopping of the motion of the steamer ; 
the second was the noise of running to and fro and loud 
talking overhead. 

In some alarm she arose hastily, dressed herself and 
went up on deck. 

“ What is the matter ?” she demanded of Doctor Good- 
win, who was standing at the head of the stairs, reach- 
ing down his hand to help her up. 

“ Nothing is the matter. We are at Queenstown,” 
said the doctor. 

“Oh !” 

“ You have never been here before ?” 

“ No, never.” 

“ What, not when you came over ? Why, all the Eng- 
lish and American steamships stop here !” 

“ But I came on a French steamer and landed at 
Havre.” 

“ Ah, that accounts for it !” said the doctor, as he led 
her forward where she could get a good view of the 
beautiful harbor. 

He took her to a spot where Colonel Fitzgerald was 
standing. He noticed, as Gerald lifted his hat and bade 
her good morning, how her face flushed and paled. 

“ Ah,” thought the doctor, “ the old charm works ! I 
will give her only the ten or twelve days of isolation 
with Fitzgerald in this ship to win him back, and bring 
him to her feet.” 

“ How long shall we stay here ?” inquired Gercldine, 
breaking into his conversation with himself. 


424 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Oh, until the arrival of this day’s mail from London, 
which will be thirty-six hours later than the mails we 
brought from Liverpool.” 

“ Why, how is that ?” 

“ It comes across country from London to Holyhead, 
thence across the Irish Sea to Kingston, and thence 
down to Queenstown, to meet the steamer, and bring 
the very latest from London,” said the doctor. 

“ I do not quite understand yet,” said Geraldine, with 
a puzzled air. 

“ My dear, you must look at your map. These' latest 
letters, papers and even passengers come to us by what 
I may call a short cut across land and water. The route 
is but twelve hours from London and is called the 
‘ Irish Mail,’ ” explained Doctor Goodwin. 

“ Oh, yes, thank you, I know now,” replied Geraldine. 

But what Miss Fitzgerald did not know — what no one 
there knew, or even suspected, was that Gertrude was 
living ; that Gertrude was even then hastening to the 
Euston Square Railway Station in London, to catch 
that very Irish Mail train that was to bring the latest 
passengers, and for which the Europa waited. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

TWICE SAVED. 

Beyond the toiling and the weeping 
I shall be soon. 

Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 

Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 

I shall be soon. — Horatius Bonar. 

“ Has the Irish Mail train left yet ?” repeated Sallust 
Rowley, as he sprang from the cab in front of the Eus- 


TWICE SAVED. 


425 


ton Square Railway Station, and hastily assisted Ger- 
trude to alight. 

The question was breathlessly addressed to half a 
dozen porters, loafers and other loiterers about the 
otherwise quiet station. 

At first no one answered ; but when he eagerly re- 
iterated his question as he hurried his companion to the 
entrance, half a score of voices answered at once : 

“ Yes, sir ! Left about five minutes.” 

“ Left five minutes ago ! Then our watches are 
several minutes slow !” exclaimed Sallust ; but before 
he could utter another word, he had to turn to attend 
to Gertrude, whose hand was slipping from his arm. 

He caught her just as she was about to sink on the 
sidewalk. He lifted her light form in his arms and 
bore her to the cab and placed her on the cushions, 
where she sank back, breathless, speechless, yet not 
unconscious. 

A thoughtful porter followed quickly with a glass of 
water that he had procured from a fruit-stand near. 

“ Thank you, friend !” said Sallust Rowley, as he 
took the glass and put it to the pallid lips of his com- 
panion. 

Gertrude drank a little of the water, bowed in silence 
and turned away her head. 

Sallust Rowley returned the glass to the porter, with 
a shilling for his trouble. 

“ The lady expected to go by the Irish Mail, sir ?” 
inquired the man, as he touched his hat in acknowl- 
edgment of. the shilling. 

‘‘ Yes, to meet the steamer at Queenstown. I meant 
to overtake the Europa^' answered the communicative 
Sallust. 

“ That ’s a main pity, for the last chance is gone just 
five minutes ago. I think, sir, as it 's a deal more 


42G 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


aggravating to miss a train by a minute than it is by 
an hour,” pursued the porter, encouraged to talk by the 
affability of his new acquaintance. 

“ Yes, that it is ; but shut the door now, if you please, 
friend,” said Sallust, who, with all his kindheartedness, 
was averse to a longer interview. 

“Yes, sir. Where shall I tell the cabman to drive, 
sir ?” inquired the man, touching his hat. 

“ Nowhere. We shall stand here until the lady re- 
covers. Shut the door,” said Sallust, beginning to lose 
his patience, as he saw a crowd collecting. 

The porter touched his hat again and shut the door. 

Sallust turned and looked at his companion, who had 
sunk back in the corner of the cab, pallid, motionless, 
overwhelmed by this last heavy blow. Sallust always 
experienced a difficulty in addressing Gertrude. The 
tender, brotherly love and pity he felt for the meek and 
gentle being always impelled him to speak to her by 
her plain given name ; while the delicacy and respect 
suited to their relative positions required that he should 
address her only by her husband’s name ; though to do 
so seemed to Sallust’s friendly soul too cold and formal 
a way of treating his sweet and trusting fellow-traveller, 
especially when she was suffering, as now. 

However, he thought it would be safer to err on the 
side of reserve than of familiarity ; and so, while his 
compassionate spirit was longing to call her : “ Dear 
Gertrude,” he only said : 

“ Dear Mrs. Fitzgerald, will you sit here until you 
have recovered, or do you now feel equal to going on 
to some hotel ?” 

“Wait, please — I must think,” said Gertrude, with an 
effort. These were the first words she had spoken 
since arriving at the station. 

“ This is a most cruel disappointment, and I feel for 


Twice saved. 


you from my soul, I do, indeed ! I would do anything 
in the world to serve you, I would, indeed ! You have 
only to command me, and I will obey you ! You may 
order me about and use me and abuse me as if I were 
your negro slave, if you will only let me serve you in 
any way,” said the boy, earnestly, as the tears arose to 
his eyes. 

“ Dear, good, brave soul, you have done nothing but 
serve me since you saved my life,” murmured Gertrude, 
fervently, though it still cost her an effort to speak. 

“ It is my duty and my life to serve you with all my 
power until I place you safely in the hands of your hus- 
band,” replied Sallust, gallantly. 

“ Eternal thanks, Mr. Rowley.” 

“ But what can I do for you now ?” 

Gertrude, overwhelmed as she was, began to reflect 
rapidly. 

“ There is now no possible way of communicating 
with Colonel Fitzgerald until he reaches New York ?” 
she inquired. 

“ No, there is not. Where he is now, on board the 
Europa^ a letter sent to-day could not reach him more 
quickly than we could, who cannot reach him at all ! 
You see how it is. Oh, that I had the wings of a carrier- 
pigeon, to fly to him with your message and stop him 
at Queenstown ! But as I have not, we will have to 
write to him by the first steamer,” sighed Sallust. 

“ Write to him ! No ! We, or at least I, must follow 
him by the first steamer. Have you a copy of the Times 
with you, Mr. Rowley,” inquired Gertrude, who was 
gradually recovering her self-possession. 

“Yes,” replied the young man, drawing that morn-* 
ing's “ Thunderer ” from his pocket. 

“ Look, please, and see which is the first steamer that 
sails for New York. I do not mind from what port she 


428 THE REJECTED BRIDE. 

sails or to what line she belongs,” said Gertrude, 
eagerly. 

Sallust unfolded his paper, turned to the column de- 
voted to ocean travel and ran his eye down it. 

“ Well, well ?” exclaimed Gertrude, eagerly. 

“ The first is the Zanzibar^ that sails from Southamp- 
ton on Saturday morning,” said Sallust, reading. 

“ That is the day after to-morrow ! We must secure 
that ! We may then chance to be in New York as soon 
as Colonel Fitzgerald himself,” eagerly exclaimed Ger- 
trude. 

“ Very well, then, we will drive to the office of that 
line and see if it be possible to secure a passage,” said 
Sallust, as he folded the paper and replaced it in his 
pocket. 

“ We must secure a passage, or at least / must. I will 
go by that steamer if I have to go in the steerage.” 

“ Certainly, then I must attend you ; though I doubt, 
dear Mrs. Fitzgerald, if you would venture on a steer- 
age passage, if you really knew what it is — for a lady.” 

“ I know that it will last but ten or twelve days at the 
longest, and that women live through it, and therefore 
I can, especially when supported by the thought that it 
will bring me much sooner to my home than a first- 
cabin passage on a later steamer would do. Please tell 
the cabman to drive to the agent’s office, Mr. Rowley.” 

Sallust put his head out of the window, hailed the 
driver and directed him to drive to the office of the 
Excelsior Steamship Company, Grace Church Street, 
city. 

The man touched his hat and drove off. 

“ Mrs. Fitzgerald, you keep up wonderfully. I declare 
you do. The blows you have had since that ship- 
wreck have been enough to knock over any woman 
who hadn’t your fortitude and patience !” exclaimed 


TWICE SAVED. 


420 


Sallust, in a tone of enthusiasm, as he looked with ad- 
miration on his companion. 

“ Indeed, then, Mr. Rowley, in this trial I owe much 
more to your constant support than to my own strength. 
I owe everything — my life and every help since that 
was saved — to you,” said Gertrude, meekly. 

“ You — you — you owe more to my poor help than to 
your own strength ! You, who crossed the Wilde 
through a midnight storm in an open boat to fetch over 
a forlorn traveller !” exclaimed Sallust, in amazement. 

“ Oh, but that was action ; this is endurance ; this is 
much worse than crossing the Wilde in a midnight 
storm,” answered Gertrude. 

“ Well, I shouldn’t wonder if it was — under the cir- 
cumstances,” admitted Mr. Rowley. 

The conversation ceased for the time being, and the 
cab bowled rapidly on to the city, turned into Grace 
Church Street and drew up before the office of the 
Excelsior Steamship Line. 

“ Remain in the cab, dear Mrs. Fitzgerald, and I will 
go out and do the best I can for you,” said Sallust, as 
he alighted. 

“ And mind I am going on that steamer in any case, 
most positively ! There is always room for one more 
in the steerage, you know,” said Gertrude, with unusual 
obstinacy. 

“ Oh, I shall probably be able to do better than that 
for you. This is not so popular a line as the other, you 
know. The ships are seldom overcrowded, I fancy,” 
said Sallust, as he disappeared in the agent’s office. 

Gertrude, now recovered from the first effects of her 
disappointment, sat back in her seat and, while waiting 
for the return of Sallust, began to estimate the real 
amount of her loss. 

‘‘Annoying and disappointing,” she said to herself, 


430 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 

“ but, after all, not so grave as to have overwhelmed 
me as it did. If we could have caught that train, we 
should have reached Queenstown to-night, and I should 
have met my dear husband and comforted him and 
crossed the ocean with him. As it is, I shall have to 
go without him, in a steamer, three days later, and our 
meeting and his consolation must be deferred for ten 
or twelve days longer. Come, I must be brave and not 
hurt that good soul who is doing all he can for me — not 
hurt him by my impatience or despondency.” 

Sallust was gone an unconscionably long time. It 
was a full half-hour before he returned to the cab. 

“ The agent kept me waiting,” he said, “ but I have 
got something well worth waiting for, though I cannot 
get you a stateroom in the first cabin.” 

“ Of course, I did not expect to get one. If I can 
have a berth in the second cabin at this late date, I 
shall consider myself well off,” exclaimed Gertrude. 
“ And I am even willing and glad to go in the steerage 
rather than defer my voyage,” she added, eagerly. 

“ Wait a bit. We shall do a great deal better than 
that. You have quite a choice. Listen ! Although 
you cannot haye a whole stateroom to yourself in the 
first cabin, you can have a berth in ome with a single 
lady. Or, if you do not like to room with any one, you 
can have a whole stateroom to yourself in the second 
cabin.” 

“ I prefer the stateroom in the second cabin, because 
I might be sick and so be troublesome to my fellow- 
passenger. I prefer to be private, if I cannot be with 
friends. And you, Mr. Rowley, can you get a comfort- 
able room ?” inquired Gertrude. 

“ Oh, not a room ; nor do I want one. I prefer 
company. I shall have a berth in the second-cabin 
stateroom with another man. I am never seasick, and 


TWICE SAVED. 


431 


if my room-mate makes a nuisance of himself by be- 
coming so, I shall abate it promptly by knocking him 
on the head and pitching him overboard. Well — so you 
decide for the second-cabin stateroom ?” 

‘‘ Certainly." 

“ Then I will go back and get the tickets," said Sal- 
lust, as he left the window of the cab and returned to 
the office. 

Another half hour passed slowly away, and he came 
back with the tickets in his hands, grumbling : 

“ These people are so awfully slow about everything. 
Here I have been an hour settling this little business." 

“ But we have been very fortunate in securing our 
passage in this ship," put in Gertrude, cheerfully. 

“ So we have, my dear Mrs. Fitzgerald. Now, madam, 
what shall be our next step ? This is Thursday morn- 
ing. Our steamer sails from Southampton on Saturday 
morning. Where is it you will that we go in the mean- 
time ?" inquired Sallust, with his hand on the cab-door. 

“ Mr. Rowley, call at the first stationer’s and procure 
a time-table and see when the first train starts for South- 
ampton," said Gertrude. 

** My dear lady, there are at least a dozen available 
trains, between this and Saturday morning. There is 
plenty of time. You had better let me take you to some 
good house to rest until to-morrow morning. You have 
been going continually for the last twenty-four hours," 
urged Sallust. 

“ But I wish to go to our port by the first train, so as 
to forestall all delay by accidents. I know that I am 
unreasonable in this matter ; but I shall feel so much 
nearer home when I find myself at the seaport from 
which our ship is to sail for New York. Forgive my 
folly and gratify me, Mr. Rowley," said Gertrude, plead- 
ingly. 


432 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ My dear lady, you have only to command, and I to 
obey. Drive to the nearest stationer’s shop,” said Sal- 
lust, as he entered the cab and pulled to the door. 

The man drove off, and a few yards farther on he 
pulled up. 

Sallust Rowley got out and procured a Bradshaw, 
with which he returned to the cab. 

“ Where now, sir ?” inquired the man. 

“ To Very’s, corner of Oxford and Regent vStreets,” 
replied Sallust, without on this occasion stopping to 
consult Gertrude. 

The cabman touched his hat and mounted his box 
and drove on. 

Sallust addled his brains over Bradshaw. 

“ What is ‘ Very's,’ Mr. Rowley ?” inquired Gertrude. 

“ Let me see — the express leaves — What did you say, 
Mrs. Fitzgerald?” inquired Sallust, arousing himself 
from his studies. >.■ 

“ I ask you, what is Very’s ?” 

“ Oh ! A perfect, unexceptionable, first-class restau- 
rant for ladies and gentlemen, to which I am going to 
take you to dine, while we settle about our train,” Sal- 
lust explained. 

A very uncomfortable feeling came over Gertrude. 
Hitherto she had only been travelling in railway car- 
riages and cabs with Sallust Rowley, and even then she 
was, as she supposed, going directly to her husband. 
But now, this running about London and dining at a 
restaurant with a young man, even though that young 
man was innocent and boyish Sallust Rowley, was very 
repugnant to her sense of delicacy. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Rowley,” she said, after 
some hesitation, and with a vivid blush, “ but indeed I 
would rather not go to a restaurant. Will there not be 
a train to Southampton soon ? And can we not go di- 


TWICE SAVED. 


433 


rectly to the railway-station and get something in the 
refreshment-room there, while waiting for our train ?” 

“ Oh, yes, certainly you can get something ; but noth- 
ing that you would like to eat or drink, I know,” replied 
Sallust. 

“ Well, never mind ! Take me to the railway-station> 
dear Mr. Rowley, and leave me there in the ladies’ room 
while you go to Very’s, or wherever you like, and get a 
good dinner.” 

Sallust looked up from the wilderness of Bradshaw, 
and said : 

“ Why, my dear Mrs. Fitzgerald, I shall go where you / 
go and stay where you stay, and I shall never be more 
than twenty yards off from you until I put you safely in 
your husband’s hands. / leave you alone in a London 
railway-station ? It is not likely ! No, no more than I 
would have left you alone in the sea !” 

“ You are very good ^o me, Mr. Rowley, but I fear 
you find me very troublesome,” said Gertrude, com- 
punctiously. 

“ Well, now, if you knew how proud and delighted I 
am to take care of you, both for your sake and for 
Gerald’s, you would never say that,” replied Sallust. 
Then divining some of her delicate scruples, he added : 

“ I am Gerald’s nearest of kin, you know, and for the 
lack of either of us having nearer male relatives, we 
have always been like brothers.” 

Oh, indeed, I did not know that,” exclaimed Ger- 
trude, with pleasure. 

“ Did you not, really ? Why, bless my soul, Fitz- 
gerald and myself are double first cousins, and if that 
does not make us as near a kin as brothers, I don’t 
know under the circumstances what would !” said Sal- 
lust, emphatically. 

'^-“Double first cousins!’ What sort of relationship 


434 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


may that be, Mr. Rowley ?” inquired Gertrude with a 
puzzled look. 

A relationship peculiar to Wilde County ! A very 
much intermarried relationship, indigenous to the 
soil.” 

“ Explain.” 

“ Listen. Gerald's father married my father’s only 
sister, and my father married Gerald’s father’s only 
sister. Or, in other words : Gerald’s mother married 
my mother’s brother, and my mother married Gerald’s 
mother’s brother, all of which made Gerald and me 
double first cousins,” Sallust explained, with a look of 
solemnity. “ Now, do you understand ?” 

“No, I do not !” said Gertrude, more than ever per- 
plexed by the way in which the eccentric young man 
had explained, or rather attempted to explain, a very 
simple matter. “ I do not understand ! I always lose 
and bewilder myself in trying to trace out Wilde 
County genealogies. They are worse than Bradshaw’s 
routes.” 

“ Well, anyhow you see that Gerald and I are double 
first cousins and nearest of kin ?” 

“Yes, I see that ; or, at least, I utterly take your word 
for it, of course,” answered Gertrude, simply. 

“ And I hope you take my word for this, too : That, 
of all the men in the world, I am the most proper man 
to take care of you, until I hand you over to your 
husband. And also that it will be the proudest and 
happiest day of my life when I place your h^nd in his 
and leave you to tell him the story of your rescue,” 
said the boy, with a beaming face. 

“You are a brave and generous spirit, Cousin Sallust, 
and I am sure Gerald must deeply appreciate that when 
he sees you again,” said Gertrude, warmly. 

“ Thanks, Cousin Gertrude ! I will try tg Reserve 


TWICE SAVED. 


435 


your good opinion. I need not call you Mrs. Fitzgerald 
any more, need I ?” gayly inquired Sallust. 

“ Call me, ‘ Cousin.* I set you the example,” kindly 
replied the little lady. “ And now,” she inquired, “have 
you found out when the first train leaves for South- 
ampton ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Sallust, referring to his Bradshaw, 
“ the first express-train leaves Waterloo Bridge Station 
at six o’clock this afternoon. It is now but three. We 
have three hours to dispose of,” said Sallust. 

“ Then that will give us time to go to Very’s and get 
a cup of tea,” said Gertrude, hesitatingly, and with 
the same shrinking reluctance she had felt when this 
measure was first proposed and she had refused it. 

“ Well, cousin, will you go now ?* 

“ If you please,” she answered, speaking more from 
the grateful and benevolent wish to gratify her relative 
and benefactor than to benefit herself. 

“ Well, I think you ought to let me take you some- 
where to get something, for ever since we left the 
fisherman’s cottage at St. Margaret’s Bay yesterday, you 
have been going all the time as fast as you could, with- 
out rest and almost without refreshment. And here we 
are at Very’s now. We had better keep this cab. Had 
we not ?’* 

“ Yes, we had better keep the cab ; for, after lunch, I 
must drive to the nearest ladies’ outfitter and purchase 
a few necessaries for the voyage. You, too, I should 
think, would need something,” suggested Gertrude. 

“Yes — one change of clothing and a tooth-brush. 
That’s about all I want for a ten days’ sea- trip,” said 
Sallust, laughing ; “ and we can get all we require right 
here on Regent Street,” he continued, as he handed his 
companion from the cab, and led her into the fashion- 
able London French cafL 


436 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Now, my dear little Wilde County cousin, here you 
will have an opportunity of seeing some specimens of 
what the cockneys call the English ‘ hairy-stock-crazy,’ 
and at feeding-time, too, and without extra charge ! 
Think of it ! You may remember that at the Zoo they 
charge an extra sixpence to see the grand carnivora 
feed. Now, you get that thrown in, here. You may 
see some of the very grandest carnivora feed here, with- 
out money and without price. And, besides, you may 
yourself partake of what the same cockneys call a 
‘ keezeene ' of incomparable excellence ; for what Very’s 
don’t know about cooking isn’t worth mentioning. Here 
we are !’ said Sallust, as he led his young cousin into a 
vast and splendid saloon, furnished with small, ele- 
gantly appointed tables, at which Gertrude was pleased 
to see more ladies and children than gentlemen. 

Sallust and Gertrude were received by a polite waiter, 
who conducted them to a table and drew out chairs and 
laid down a bill of fare. 

“ Mark what you would like, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said 
Sallust, passing the carte to Gertrude. 

She marked orange pekoe tea, with cream and sugar, 
and added poached eggs on. buttered toast. She re- 
turned it to Sallust, who smiled grimly over her choice, 
and added a tenderloin beefsteak, and some other sub- 
stantials. Seeing that it was dinner-time, he would have 
liked to add a pint bottle of champagne, but he was 
afraid of shocking his little, sensitive companion, so he 
finished by adding coffee. 

When the waiter, who called himself “ Zhorge ” 
[George], had gone to execute his order, Gertrude looked 
around in search of those “ specimens ” of whom Sallust 
had spoken. She saw only groups of quiet, simply 
dressed ladies and children, soriie of them attended by 
gentlemen and some not. 


4:^7 


TWICE SAVED. 

Cousin Gertrude, what did I tell you ? Look at that 
party sitting in the corner between the two end win- 
dows.” 

Gertrude looked, and saw a short, dumpy, old lady, 
dressed in rather shabby black, a young lady in a plain 
gray suit and several children from ten to fifteen years 
of age, simply clothed, all gathered around the table, 
and engaged upon a lunch of mutton chops, bread and 
cheese and brown stout. 

“ Now, then, Gertrude, looking at that party, what 
cl^ss of people would you take them to be ?” 

Gertrude glanced at the group and answered : 

“ Some worthy old country woman come up to town 
with her nieces or grandchildren to shop or to see the 
sights.” 

“Look again.” 

“ Well, I do look again, and I think the same.” 

“ And, my dear cousin, you are right. She is a worthy 
old country woman. But she is also — who do you 
think ?” 

“ I am sure I cannot tell.” 

“ She is the dowager Duchess of N, and those with 
her are her grandchildren and their governess.” 

Our country girl dropped her chin and opened her 
eyes. 

“ Surely, you are mistaken, Mr. Rowley. That shabby, 
common-looking old person the Duchess of N ?” 

“ Yes, my dear madam, she is. I know her and her 
whole party from having seen them every Sunday at 
church in their family pew, when I was in London last 
year. They attended the same church that I did.” 

“ But — why does she dress so ? Are they very poor ?” 

“ No, belle cousine^ they are among the wealthiest as 
well as among the oldest ducal houses in England.” 

“ But, why does she dress so — ?” 


438 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


“ Shabbily ? She is the Duchess of N. So what does 
it matter how she dresses, so she dresses decently. But 
here is our luncheon,” said Sallust, as “ Zhorge ” ap- 
peared with a well-laden tray, which he placed upon an 
adjoining table, while he transferred its delicacies to 
that of our friends. 

“ But why do these ladies lunch on such coarse fare 
as mutton, bread and cheese and brown stout?” inquired 
Gertrude, reverting to their former subject of conversa- 
tion. 

“Oh, because they believe in that sort as the most 
nourishing and strengthening of food and drink. I 
have heard that it is her majesty’s favorite lunch. Of 
course, they have dainty dishes and delicate wines on 
their dinner-tables ! But now, let me help you !” said 
Sallust. 

Gertrude with difficulty drew her attention away 
from the great duchess, who looked so much as if she 
might have been a market-woman, and gave it to her 
luncheon. 

And for the next fifteen minutes, as Sallust at least 
was too busy to talk, there was no conversation. 

When the repast was over and the bill settled, they 
left the house, reentered the waiting cab and drove to 
a ladies’ outfitter’s, on Regent Street, where Gertrude 
procured the few articles she needed and had them 
packed in a small valise. 

Meanwhile, Sallust had just crossed the street to an 
establishment opposite, where he got all he wanted. 

“ It is now half-past four o’clock. We have ample 
time to reach Waterloo Bridge Station and choose our 
carriage before the train starts,” said Sallust, as he 
rejoined Gertrude and handed her into the cab. 

They reached the station before the train was made 
up and had some twenty minutes to spare, which they 


TWICE SAVED. 


439 


spent in the ladies’ waiting-room, looking over the 
illustrated papers which Sallust had brought in for his 
fellow-traveller’s amusement. 

When, at length, the train was ready, Sallust placed 
Gertrude in a first-class compartment of six seats, four 
of which were already occupied by an old gentlemen 
and lady with two half-grown boys. Sallust and Ger- 
trude seated themselves in the remaining two. 

Soon after the train started, Gertrude, overcome by 
so much fatigue and excitement of mind and body, fell 
fast asleep in her corner and slept soundly through the 
whole journey. She saw nothing whatever of the road 
over which they passed nor of the stations at which 
they stopped. The shock of the stoppings and startings 
again seemed only to lift her unconsciously to drop her 
into a deeper repose. 

She slept a trance-like sleep through all the bustle of 
the arrival at the Southampton terminus. 

All her fellow-passengers gathered up their outer 
garments, wraps and parcels, and left the carriage 
without disturbing her. 

Even then, Sallust had some little difficulty in 
awakening her. 

Come, Mrs. Fitzgerald ! Come, my dear lady ! 
Come, Cousin Gertrude — wake up ! You have had a 
stupendous sleep f he said at length, gently shaking 
her shoulder. 

She opened her eyes and looked around in utter 
bewilderment upon her empty railway carriage, the 
gleaming lights outside and the crowded docks beyond. 

“Comet Come, Cousin Gertrude! Wake up! We 
have arrived,” exclaimed Sallust, with rousing hearti- 
ness, while the guard stood at the door, holding it open 
and waiting for these slow passengers to get out. 

“Why, Gerald! — I thought — When? — How?— I 


440 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


thought — Oh, I forgot r said Gertrude, only half 
aroused and very much bewildered, as she let Sallust 
help her out of the carriage and gather up her parcels, 
which he gave in charge of a porter. 

“ Cousin Gertrude, take my arm. And if you can 
manage to walk a few steps, I will take you to the 
vSouthwestern Hotel. It is right here at the terminus, 
and convenient to the docks. See ! Come along !” said 
Sallust, drawing her arm within his own and leading 
her into the office of the house, followed by the porter 
with their luggage. 

“ Cousin Sallust," said Gertrude, when he had pro- 
vided her with a seat, “ I had forgotten where we were 
and all about it, when you waked me up. I had been 
dreaming, too. I thought I was sitting in the bows of 
the Europa^ looking out upon the star-lit sky and the 
open sea, and Gerald and Geraldine were sitting there, 
too, but they did not see me when I looked at them, nor 
hear me when I spoke to them, nor even feel me when 
I touched them, and my heart was fairly breaking be- 
cause I could not make them know that I was there. 
But at last Geraldine went away to her stateroom, and 
then Gerald recognized me, and said : 

“ ‘ Oh, my little Gertrude ! Are you alive ! And can 
you come back P' 

“ I said : 

“ ‘ This way I can.’ 

“ And then I sat down by him and began to tell him 
how I was saved. I was still talking to him, when you 
waked me up. Cousin Sallust, and, of course, it was with 
some difficulty I could realize that I was with you in a 
railway carriage, instead of with my husband on the 
deck of the ocean steamer." 

“Well, my dear, you were very sound asleep, that is 
certain. Now sit here, while I go to the counter and 


TWICE SAVED. 


441 


see if I can get good rooms for you,” said Sallust, as he 
left her on his errand. 

But there was quite a crowd around the hotel clerk, 
and Mr. Rowley had to wait his turn. 

At length rooms were assigned to him and his fellow- 
traveller, and a waiter was directed to attend them. 

This functionary conducted them up several flights of 
stairs to a wide corridor, upon which many rooms opened. 

He unlocked a door marked 198, and said : 

“ This is for the lady.” 

Gertrude entered, followed by the porter, who de- 
posited her luggage on the floor and left her. 

Meanwhile the waiter led Sallust to a room on the 
opposite side, numbered 275, and said : 

“ This is yours, sir. Any orders for supper ?” 

“ Yes, in the coffee-room, one hour from this, supper 
for two. Tea, toast, cold fowl, sweetmeats, cakes,” an- 
swered Sallust, selecting his bill of fare with a view 
rather to what he supposed to be Gertrude’s tastes, than 
to his own. 

The waiter bowed and retired, and was succeeded by 
the porter, who placed Sallust’s valise upon a chair, and 
then left him to get the railway dust and cinders off his 
face and head, and otherwise make himself presentable 
in the coffee-room. 

Meanwhile, Gertrude had closed and locked the door 
of her chamber, and prepared to bathe her face and 
dress her hair. 

But again that strange, foreboding shadow swept over 
her spirit — that sickening sense of wrong for which she 
was, indeed, in no way accountable. She felt shocked, 
pained and depressed at the false position in which she 
found herself — indeed by no choice of her own — that of 
travelling under the escort of a young man, even though 
that travelling was an unavoidable necessity, and that 


44^ 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


young man a near relative of her husband, and as pure 
and true a knight as ever served lady. 

She had just finished her simple toilet when Sallust 
rapped at her door to take her to the coffee-room to 
supper. 

“You look pale and weary, little cousin! Are you 
very much fatigued ?” inquired Sallust, with kindly in- 
terest. 

“ No ; only very, very anxious to commence my voy- 
age. How soon do you think we may go on the steamer, 
Mr. Rowley?” inquired Gertrude, to whom the ship 
seemed less objectionable than the hotel. 

“ Why, not until Saturday morning, of course ! And 
this is Thursday night.” 

“Oh, dear !” sighed Gertrude. 

“ Come, cousin, brace up ! I never thought that you 
could break down. But you are tired and worried with 
all that you have gone through. A good supper and a 
long night’s rest will restore you,” said Sallust, encour- 
agingly, as he conducted her down-stairs. 

But Mr. Rowley was mistaken. 

The good supper and the long night’s rest restored 
Gertrude’s physical strength, indeed, but it did not 
soothe that sense of wounded delicacy which distressed 
her so much. 

She met her escort at breakfast, but gratefully de- 
clined every proposition that he made for her enter- 
tainment, and would neither go to Netley Abbey nor 
to the New Forest nor. on any other of the short 
excursions favored by Southampton tourists. 

On the plea of fatigue she shut herself up in her 
chamber and remained there all day, coming down into 
the coffee-room only for dinner and for tea. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


443 


CHAPTER XL. 

HOMEWARD BOUND. 

Once more upon the waters ! 

Oh, once more ! — Byron. 

At seven o’clock the next morning-, they went on 
board the Zanzibar. 

Gertrude immediately asked to be shown to her state- 
room, a plainly furnished but clean and comfortable one 
in the second cabin, of which she then took possession. 

Sallust, with officious kindness, followed her and told 
her that his room, which he shared with another man, 
was not far off — was, in fact, within the sound of her 
voice if ever she should want anything. 

Then leaving her to arrange her effects in her state- 
room, he went on deck to stand and view the fine scenery 
of Southampton water as the ship steamed out to sea. 

As he stood leaning over the bulwarks, letting his 
eyes rove over the receding spires of the city and ship- 
ping of the harbor, he heard a voice at his elbow, saying : 

“ Well, friend, it appears that you are to share my 
stateroom ; and, as we are to be fellow-travellers and 
chums for the next ten days, we may as well get ac- 
quainted. ’* 

While the voice spoke, Sallust Rowley turned and 
looked at the speaker, and saw before him a tall, swarthy 
man, roughly clothed, in whose gipsy complexion, 
Roman features, burning black eyes and long, iron-gray 
hair and beard, he recognized an old and interesting ac- 
quaintance, and was simultaneously recollected by him. 

Why, Adam Lackland !” 

“ Sallust Rowley V’* burst in the same instant from the 
lips of both, as their hands met in a cordial clasp. 


444 


THE REJECTED BRIDE. 


I am so glad to meet you !” exclaimed the younger 
man. 

“ And I, to meet you,” responded the other. 

“ So you are going back to America ?” inquired Sallust. 

‘‘ Yes. I have been advertised for. 

‘ If Adam Lackland, who was in Washington two years ago, 
will communicate with Messrs. Able & Barke, attorneys-at-law, 
Wildeville, he will hear something to his advantage.’ 

That is the advertisement that is taking me back there, 
after more than thirty years’ absence,” said the back- 
woodsman. 

“ Oh ! Indeed ! You must have left it when a boy !” 
said Sallust. 

“ I did.” 

“ And have you never seen the place since ?” 

“ I may say I have never seen the place since, though 
I was there for one night, one awful night about seven- 
teen years ago, or a little less.” 

“ And now you are going back to answer an adver- 
tisement. Advertisements worded like that generally 
mean a fortune left you, or something, don’t they ?” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ Can you guess what it may be in your case ?” 

“I think I can, but I would rather not enter into 
particulars just now.” 

“Of course not. Well, I am going back to Wilde 
County, too, as you may guess, and very glad to do it. 
I am taking home a young lady who was saved from 
the wreck of the Messeyiger^ which was burned in Dover 
Straits, you know.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I ’ll tell you the whole story, some time, but I can’t 
here, in this crowd ; besides, she will be coming back on 
deck and will interrupt us. But I say,” added Sallust, 
lowering his voice, as he changed the subject, “ we 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


445 


have got a great deal to talk to each other about. Your 
acquittal, for instance. How overjoyed I was to hear 
of that piece of justice being done you after all !’^ 

‘‘ Good heaven of heavens, Rowley ! Who is that 
suddenly exclaimed Lackland, turning pale as death, as 
he stared straight before him. 

Sallust glanced in the direction of his gaze and saw 
Gertrude, in her sea dress, and with her head covered 
with a white vShetl and- wool hood, advancing toward 
them. 

“ Who is she ? In the name of heaven, who is she V' 
demanded Lackland, trembling from head to foot. 

‘‘ She ? Why, Mrs. Fitzgerald ! She was Gertrude 
Haddon,” said Sallust, gazing at the questioner, as if he 
suspected him of being insane. 

“ ‘ Gertrude Haddon !' ” echoed the man, leaning on 
the bulwark for support. “ Gertrude Haddon !'' 

END OF “THE REJECTED BRIDE:'* 
“Only a Girl’s Heart,” 

Second Series. . 

^ /_ - — 

“ ONLY A GIRL’S HEART 
First Series. 

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 

“GERTRUDE HADDON:” 

“ Only a Girl’s Heart,” 

Third Series. 

By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 

“ Gertrude Haddon ” concludes the series of novels written by 

Mrs. Southworth, under the title of 
“ Only a Girl’s Heart.” 

Handsomely bound in cloth, price, $i.oo, Paper cover, 50 cents. 


An American Novel. 


HETTY, OR.THE OLD GRUDGE 

- ' BY 

♦ 

J. H. CONNELLY. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. WHITNEY. 


12mo. 800 Fagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


This is a careful study of life and experience in a primitive 
American village. The characters are simple, strong and adven- 
turous. When moved by strong passion, they act with a force 
and directness impossible to people bred in the complex circum- 
stances and influences of the conventional life and society of 
cities. There are sweetness and charm in the portraiture of this 
heroine of the woods and fields. The exciting incidents which 
mark the progress and climax of the story only serve to empha- 
size the beauty and truth which the author has wrought into the 
substance of her character. Mr. Connelly is one of our most con- 
scientious American writers and one who is destined to enjoy 
fame and popularity. Nothing weak or disappointing ever comes 
from his pen, and we can recommend his work to all who wish to 
read an excellent novel. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New Yore. 


LOVE IS LORD OF ALL; 

^ - OR, 

NEIGHBORING STEPPES, 
a MoBti. 

ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN 

BY -MARY J. SAFFORD, 

Translator of “ Wife and Woman Little Heather-Blossom^^* 
True Daughter of Hartenstein*' etc^^ etc. 

WITH JI^UBTBATIOm BY F. A. CABTEB. 

12mo. 800 Pasea. Handsomely Boimd In Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


The second title of this story, Neighboring Steppes,” indi- 
cates the scene of the story, which is adjoining estates on the 
great plains of Poland. The heir of a ruined and dissipated 
nobleman falls in love with the daughter of a rich Jew who has 
bought one of the estates of the family. The beautiful character 
of the Jewess and the heroism of the young baron are in refresh- 
ing contrast to the narrow pride and contemptible conduct of 
those who endeavor to break off their intimacy. It is a surpass- 
ingly interesting sketch of foreign life made familiar by the action 
of human passions which are the same the world over. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, post- 
paid, on receipt of price,' by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York, 


An American Society Novel. 


GIRLS OF A FEATHER. 

BY 

MRS. AMELIA E. BARR’, 

Author of ^^The Beads of Tasmerf ^^The Mate of the ^Easter 
Bell,^'^ Friend Olivia f ‘^The Household of 
McNeilf Sister to Esauf etc, 

WITH ILLU8TBATI0NS BY J. O. NUGENT. 

12mo. 366 pagres. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Nothing could be more timely, nothing could be more charm- 
ing, than this exquisite book. A society novel by Mrs. Barr will 
excite widespread interest and curiosity. Girls of a Feather ” 
has the freshness of a May morning in its atmosphere and the 
form and color of June in its beautiful pictures of womanhood. It 
is a delightful successor to ‘^The Bow of Orange Ribbon,” and 
readers will find in it a lightness of touch and maturity of power 
which show the progress made by the author in the highest quali- 
ties of literary form. Her new work is distinctly an advance upon 
anything which she has ever done before, and will rank with the 
best literature of the period. Large, new type is used, and the 
appearance of the book is very attractive. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce ‘Streets, New York. 



\ 


1 


1 

I 

1 


2 


2 ‘ 


< 


( 

I 

1 

i 

i 

I 




i 



